A Very Thin Line
by pennylayne
Summary: There's a very thin line between love and hate. Sometimes it's hard to tell which side you're on. This is my first slash fic, and my first modern day. Go easy on me. Sputchy.
1. Hate

I hate him. I really, truly, deeply _hate_ him. I hate the way he looks at me over the rim of his glasses, hate the way he bugs me when I'm reading or drawing or doing _anything_ but paying attention to him, hate the stupid notes he passes me in class. I hate the way he's affectionate and snuggly in private, and cold and afraid in public. I hate the fact that he left two dirty pairs of boxers, a T-shirt, his spare toothbrush,and a June 1997 issue of _Seventeen_ in my room. I hate that I left my United States History textbookin his roomand he won't give it back to me, no matter how nicely I ask. Like he needs it for some sort of sentimental masturbatory inspiration or something. Eww.

I hate the way his blond hair falls in his face when he's concentrating. I hate the way he whistles show tunes in secret, and the way he puts his arms around me and sings a line of said show tunes at the top of his lungs.

_How the church bells will be ringin', with a hey-nonny-nonny and a ha-cha-cha!_

I hate the way he hugged me and kissed my forehead and said, "I want to be with you, Specs." And how that means nothing now, because he's afraid of being seen as a _queer_. Oh, and I _really_hate the way he calls me Specs, and how he got everyone else to do it. My name is _Daniel_, and besides, he wears glasses too! It makes no sense. _He_ makes no sense. I hate him. Hate, hate, _hate_.

I love him.

Love and hate. There's a very thin line between the two. Sometimes it's hard to tell which side you're on.


	2. The Clique

I've been at the Joseph Pulitzer School for Artistically Gifted Youth (yeah, _you_ try saying that in one breath...) for less than a week, and already everybody hates me. Granted, I haven't spoken, interacted, or made eye contact with anyone, but no one else has done any of that for me, so the logical answer is that they hate me. So I hole myself up in the library during my free periods, reading, drawing, sleeping, doing _anything_ that keeps me away from my dorm room. Away from my roommates. We haven't exchanged more than five words, but I don't like them much.

My three roommates are part of a rather exclusive clique. They are a large group of boys who all have stupid nicknames for one another and pretty much run everything in the school, from the newspaper and yearbook to the drama club to the lunchroom. They have a leader, some tall, big-headed, mildly attractive hotshot named Jack Kelly, otherwise known as "Cowboy." He's one of my roommates. Every girl in the school (that is, every girl that _isn't_ a raging bull-dyke) wants to date him, and every guy wants to be him. And I'll tell you a little secret, if you promise never to tell anyone... I'm kind of one of those guys.

Jack's right-hand man is one Spot Conlon, also one of the three jackasses I've been forced to share my room with. I have no idea if he has an actual first name. He's short and kind of looks like a girl, and he's one cocky son of a bitch. And for some reason, the girls go absolutely ga-ga over him... and he loves to let everybody know it. He also loves to pick on random kids, no matter who they are. This kid is fucking crazy... no, he's beyond that. He _defines_ the phrase "fucking crazy."

Third in command, I guess you could call him the left-hand man, is this obnoxious, loud-mouthed little squirt named Racetrack. He lives across the hall, but you wouldn't know it because he spends all his damned time in our room, making himself comfortable on _my_ bed, whether I'm there or not. Much like Spot, he reputes himself to be a real ladies' man, but I'm pretty sure they're both gay.

Last in the link at the top of the food chain is David Jacobs. He's my other roommate, and he's Jewish, like me, so I guess we have something in common or something. Dave, or "the Walking Mouth," as the other guys call him, seems like a nice enough guy, but he never does anything or says anything on his own. He just tells his ideas to Jack and lets him run with them. It's kind of pathetic, really, but I guess it's kind of cute, because I'm pretty sure he's gay, too, and in love with Jack.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that_every_ guy at this school is gay. I mean, just look at the _name_, for God's sake. It fucking _screams_ homosexuality. Not that I see anything wrong with that. I'm about the straightest thing since Elton John. I'm just not as flamboyant as him.

Anyway, back to this stupid clique. There are a bunch more of these boys, and they all live in the same hall as me. They all have their dumb nicknames, and they're all loud and rambunctious and if they can help it, they never let Jack out of their sight. Which means they're constantly in my room, which means I never get any sleep and I never get any work done, which means I spend all my fucking time hiding out in the library.

But the rest of the boys are lower in the pecking order. For the most part, they're unimportant, insignificant. Except for _him_.


	3. Silent, Bespectacled Roommate

It's my lunch period, and I'm yet again seeking refuge in the library. I've barricaded myself away from the world at a table in the farthest corner, and I'm currently drawing one of my comics while trying to ignore the growling in my stomach. In the five days that I've been here, I haven't had a single normal meal. I didn't come to the new-student orientation, so I didn't get the tour of the grounds, and thus, I have no idea where the cafeteria is. So far I've been surviving on toaster pastries, potato chips, and "artificially-flavored cherry cola drinks" from the vending machines. A.K.A., complete shit. My diet doesn't appear to be agreeing with me. But there isn't much I can do about it right now, seeing as I'd look like an ass if I asked for a map from the front office and everyone hates me, so I can't ask for directions.

My pathetic train of thought is interrupted by a burst of noise from the front of the library. I look up over the wall I've made with my backpack and some books, and see Jack Kelly and a small portion of his entourage strolling through like they freaking own the place. Great. This is just what I need, more of Pompous McFucktard and his merry band of idiots. I slump down in my chair, hoping they haven't seen me.

No such luck today. Jack comes straight back to me, grinning like the arrogant ass that he is. "Hey, you," he says, all cheerful and nice. Like Jack Kelly can be friendly. "Fellas, this is my silent, bespectacled roommate." I sit up, my face burning, and nod curtly to the group of people in front of me.

"Hello, silent, bespectacled roommate of Jack's," a cute, no, make that _very_ cute, blond boy says. "May I call you Specs, for short?" He smiles. Oh. I think I need to go change my pants.

"Um..." I clear my throat, trying to look around at the other boys in the cluster, but I can't take my eyes off this guy's face. "My name... My name's Daniel Weinberg."

The blond boy chuckles. "Specs it is, then." Everybody laughs. I want to laugh, too, because he's seriously adorable and very friendly, but Jack Kelly is laughing, and I refuse to follow him. "It's cool. My name's Johannes Visser, but everybody just calls me Dutchy."

"I can see why," I say, without even thinking. Apparently, this is hilarious. The group of boys is sent into uproarious laughter, and Jack slaps a hand on my shoulder. I flinch and push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose.

"C'mon, Specs," Jack says, picking up my backpack for me. "It's lunch time. It ain't good for your reputation to be seen sitting all alone in the damned library. Let's go get something to eat."

* * *

I walk with them, clutching my sketchbook to my chest while Dutchy carries my backpack for me. He and Jack talk to me on the way to the cafeteria (though I make sure to pay close attention to the route, so I know how to get there when I wake up from this very strange dream) and I realize that maybe this group isn't quite as bad as I thought.

"Everybody, this is Specs," Jack says, pointing me to an open spot on a bench in the courtyard. "Specs, this is everybody."

"Hey," I say, sitting down. "It's, um, it's actually Daniel. Daniel Weinberg."

Everybody smiles and greets me, except for Spot. Spot looks like he wants to rip out my jugular vein and eat it on the hamburger he's having for lunch. I try not to pay too much attention to this, though. In my five short days at the Academy, I've learned that this is just the way Spot is.

People start telling me their names, which are ridiculous things like Kid Blink (he wears an eye patch! Who the hell wears an eye patch, aside from pirates?) and Pie Eater (who apparently likes to eat pie?) and I know I'm never going to remember them all. So I just smile and nod, greeting them all in turn, until Dutchy plops down next to me.

"So, Specs," he says, with his mouth full of tuna-salad sandwich, "what craft is it that brings you to J.P.'s?"

"Um, art," I reply, blushing a little. I take a bite of my hamburger in hopes that chewing on a large wad of meat will help me look like less of an idiot. Evidently, I cannot think on my feet.

"What _kind_ of art?" Racetrack asks in a nasal falsetto. He then proceeds to quote the school's promotional brochure. "At the Joseph Pulitzer Academy for Artistically Talented Youth, all forms of art are accepted and celebrated. One must only find his most prominent talent to be welcomed into our community." Everyone laughs, including me this time.

I swallow and grin. "Visual art." Taking a swig of my soda, I shrug. "I like to draw. Mostlycomics and stuff."

"Awesome," Jack says between gigantic bites of his sandwich, with the other boys nodding in agreement.

"I'd like to see some of your stuff sometime, if you don't mind," Dutchy says, and I just smile. God, he is _so_ flirting with me.

The conversation continues, with me as the topic, until the bell rings. "What's your next class?" Dutchy asks me,two-pointing his lunch bag into the trash.

"Um..." I have to stop and think for a moment, because along with not knowing where the cafeteria is (though that problem is solved), I have no idea where half my classes are and missed the majority of them. "English."

"With who?"

"Dent, Dempsey, something with a D. I don't remember."

"Denton," he says with that sweet little grin. So. Cute. "Me too. Come on, we'll walk together."

I don't think I've ever heard sweeter words in my life.


	4. The Specs of Wrath

Dutchy and I walk into English class, and I feel every head in the room turn to stare at me. I freeze in the doorway, but Dutchy marches me up to the teacher's desk. The tall, brown-haired man sitting on the edge of it looks up from his notes.

"New kid, Mr. Denton," Dutchy says, slapping me reassuringly on the back.

"Ah, Daniel Weinberg, I presume?" Mr. Denton extends his hand, smirking slightly as I shake it and nod. "I'm glad you finally decided to join us, Daniel."

"I'm sorry, sir, I couldn't--" I start to explain myself, but Dutchy interrupts me.

"Go easy on 'im, Denton. He's new, he's a little confused. And we call him Specs." He grins proudly, as if giving me my nickname is some great achievement.

"Alright, fine. Well, Specs, let me get you a syllabus..." He ducks down anddigs through his desk drawers for a few moments, re-emerging with a stapled pamphlet. "Take a seat, and if you get lost or confused, Dutchy here can help you out. Okay?" I nod. Ooh.Can he help me out with _other_ things, too?

"Come on, Specs, we_ cool_ kids sit in the back." Dutchy chuckles at his own joke andgrabs my arm – he's touching me he's touching me – and pulls me to the rear of the classroom. I sit down beside him and observe as class begins.

* * *

The rest of the class is in a discussion about _The Grapes of Wrath_ while I sit with Dutchy and show him some of the little doodles I'd done in my history notebook. He seems to be genuinely impressed, and I'm explaining the drawings to him when Mr. Denton comes back to my desk and looks down at me.

"Specs, seeing as you're brand-new to this school and you've already missed five straight days of my class, I don't think you can afford to spend your time in this classroom talking with Dutchy," he says. And here I was thinking he was a pretty decent guy. "Now, why don't you tell us _your_ opinion of _The Grapes of Wrath_?"

"Um..." I close my notebook and clear my throat, looking up at Mr. Denton and then at the blackboard. "Well, I think that Steinbeck was one of the most definitive authors of the twentieth century, but _The Grapes of Wrath_ is absolute drivel. It's very slow-paced and full of more pointless metaphors than a reader should have to deal with, and if you aren't used to the dialect, it's very hard to follow and ultimately completely disappointing." Leaning back in my chair, I look up at Mr. Denton. "I guess you could say that my opinion of the book is that all copies of it should be set on fire and forgotten about."

Dutchy sits there, staring at me with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open. The other kids in the class have all turned in their seats to see how badly Mr. Denton is going to tear into me, but he just grins. "I like you, Weinberg," he says, and strolls back up to the front of the class.

I smile with pride, relaxing at my desk as Dutchy gives me a high-five. "Ho-ly _shit_, Specs," he says with a huge grin, then turns his attention back to Mr. Denton.


	5. As Gay as Leather Pants

"Oh, man, oh, man!" Dutchy laughs all the way through the hallway as we go to meet up with Jack and Company. "JACK!" He yells when we're still a good twenty feet away, and jogs the rest of the way there. "Jack, you gotta hear this. Specs here completely kicked Denton's ass in English. It was _hilarious_!" And he goes on to tell the heroic tale of Specs the Mighty, saving the world from boring English classes, one sarcastic book review at a time.

Everyone laughs and congratulates me on being so fucking awesome. Well, okay, that last part I threw in there for the benefit of my own ego, but you have to admit it's the truth, is it not?

Dutchy is looking at me funny. It is now that I realize thatI am, in fact, staring at him. I blink and shake my head vigorously in an attempt to play it off like I was spacing out. It seems to work, because he smiles and shrugs.

"Whatcha got next, Specs?" Dutchy asks.

"Um..." I really have no idea, so I dig around in the depths of my backpack for my schedule. It's there, crumpled up, doodled on, and partially torn, but still readable. I unfold the wad of paper and start to look it over, until Dutchy grabs it from my hand and starts giving me a commentary on all my classes.

"Okay," he says, tapping his lip in a ridiculously attractive, scholarly fashion. "Man. What the hell are you taking advanced algebra for? It's not a requirement here. And you have Wiesel for it. You poor sap." He shakes his head pitifully and continues looking over my schedule. "Oh, you got drama next! What's an art-geek like you doing taking drama?"

I shrug. "My mom wanted me to take it. Says it's good for me, or somethin'." Dutchy smirks. Yeah, my mom picked out most of my classes for me. So what?

"Well, your mom was obviously right," Racetrack chimes in, with affirmative nods from the guys surrounding him. "We're all in that class, and what could be better for you than that?" He grins, a big, lop-sided, crooked-toothed smile that apparently delights the blond, ditzy choir girl (I'm assuming she's a choir girl, because what the fuck else would a girl _that_ stupid be doing here?) hanging on his arm. He looks at his watch, then frees himself from the out-of-place bimbo and starts heading down the hallway. "And we're going to be late."

* * *

Drama class is _so fun_. I thought it would all be snooty Shakespeare, but I was way off the mark with that one. The instructor, Ms. Larkson (though she insists I call her Medda) takes some time to introduce me to everyone, but what with my new group of friends, I know just about everybody in the class, save for five or six people. After I feel sufficiently acquainted with everybody, we do warm-ups, which scare me a little, but I'm sure I'll get used to them. When those are done, we sit and argue for a few minutes as to what we're going to do. Medda evidently doesn't believe in any sort of actual curriculum.

Then the class springs into action with some improvisation games, and I sit back and watch. It's hilarious – Jack pretends to be a lofty movie star, while David is a flustered reporter trying to interview him. Dutchy hangs on Jack's arms and bats his eyelashes, giving stupid answers as he plays Jack's girlfriend.

I knew it. He's as gay as leather pants.

* * *

The rest of the day flies by more quickly than I expected. Right before seventh period, my last class of the day,Dutchy hands me a folded-up piece of paper as I head into the art studio and he's ducking into the darkroom next door. I rush into the room, take my seat at a table, and unfold the note anxiously.

_**S-**_

_**We're having a party tonight, after lights-out. In the courtyard. Meet me at 11 at my room and we'll go together. Room 418.**_

_**Trust me, it'll be a blast. You won't regret it.**_

_**-D**_

Oh, even his handwriting is sexy.

Holy shit! Dutchy has invited me to a party! God, could life get any better? I start to draw a comic of us at said party, dancing, laughing, talking, kissing, falling in sweet, sweet love under the stars.

Then I stop, and I realize that I've never been to a party where there wasn't cake and balloons and magicians... and by magicians, of course I mean rabbis.

What, exactly, do you _do_ at a party at this school? What do I wear? And is this a date?

Ugh. I'm such a girl.


	6. Boom Boom

I arrive at Dutchy's room at exactly eleven o'clock, and I knock nervously. This guy Crutchy, who's Dutchy's roommate along with Kid Blink and Mush, opens the door, and lets me in. The room is nearly spotless, which is a huge change from the nuclear fallout zone which is my dorm room. I'm taken aback for a moment, pondering how this is possible with three teenage boys in one room, but then I get distracted by this beautiful sight to the right of me. Dutchy's rummaging through the closet, still looking around for a shirt, and is currently just wearing jeans and a white undershirt. Hot. Damn.

"Hey, Specs," he says, scratching his head in frustration. "I'll be ready in a second, I'm sorry, I just totally forgot that I haven't done laundry since... um, never." He nods to his clothes hamper, which is not only overflowing but has clothes piled on top of it as well. It's the only disorderly thing in the room, and I find it endearing. Seriously, who the hell finds _dirty laundry_ endearing?

"It's cool," I say, breaking my train of thought. "I'm in no real hurry." _Except to take your clothes off... with my teeth_. I have to tear my eyes away from him. It could turn into a very uncomfortable situation. "So, uh, Crutchy, you comin' to the party tonight?"

"I might pop by later, but I got a project I wanna finish first," Crutchy replies, sitting down on his bed and opening a laptop.

"Crutchy does computer animations. He's really good," Dutchy says, pulling on a black button-up shirt. "You ready to go?" Am I ever.

* * *

We walk into the courtyard, ducking out of the range ofthe spotlights on the side of the building. Dutchy says hi to some people I haven't met yet, and then turns to me. "You wanna get something to drink?"

I nod. "I am a little bit thirsty," I say over the music, and we head over to Racetrack, who's manning a table with glasses.

"Our new friend here's thirsty," Dutchy says, and Racetrack grins. He hands me a glass and I drink, nodding at the taste. It's this juice stuff, kind of sticky-sweet, and not bad at all.

"Dammit, Dutchy, you brought the newbie?" Spot rolls his eyes as he takes a drink. Okay, I know Spot Conlon fancies himself some sort of badass, but the fact that he just called me a "newbie" really takes him down about twelve notches on the tough-guy scale. I'm surprised that he didn't tell me to "STFU!"

"He's my friend, Spot," Dutchy says defensively. "And I bet if you'd open up and not be such an assmunch to everyone, he'd be your friend, too. It's nice to have friends." His voice changed to an impersonation of Mr. Rogers in the last sentence, and I nearly spit my drink through my nose. Spot just walks off in a huff, to go find whatever girl he's using as a facade tonight.

Dutchy watches me down a couple more cups of that juice stuff, which gets more and more delicious with each sip, and drinks a little himself. He seems to be a little looser and looks over to the group of people jumping around in the middle of the courtyard. "Why don't you and I take a break from this stuff and go dance?"

He wants me to dance with him. _He wants me to dance with him_! And when you're a teenager, dancing is like sex, but with your clothes on, and not nearly as much fun! Well, at least I've heard.

"Um..." My head feels a little funny, but my body has a serious urge to go gyrate with him like the other people. "Okay, sure."

We head out to the dance floor, and after a little while, I find my groove. It's really not that hard, especially not tonight, for some reason.

I watch Dutchy as I dance. He's really good. God, if only I could watch him all the time.

The music is loud, and that makes me wonder if we'll get caught, but I don't really care. I like the song that's playing. It seems to explain my situation most effectively, and is _really_ easy to dance to.

_Boom, boom, boom, boom_

_I want you in my room_

_Let's spend the night together_

_From now until forever_

_Boom, boom, boom, boom_

_I wanna go boom-boom_

_Let's spend the night together_

_Together in my room_

Dutchy is dancing with me now, specifically with me, and I feel that _urge_, and that's can't be good. But it is. It's so good. I finally gather up the courage to just go ahead and kiss him, but just as I lean my head in close to him, the song ends. "I need another drink," he says, "what about you?"

Damn it! It was going to be so perfect! Disappointed, I nod and follow him back to the table. Crutchy has finally shown up, and Dutchy starts talking to him over their drinks. I stand by and listen, thinking how funny it is that their names rhyme, Crutchy and Dutchy, while I drink a couple or maybe twelve more cups of that stuff. My head is spinning really fast, and I feel a little bit like I'm in water. It's pretty cool. I just stand there and smile, looking at Dutchy. He's so pretty.

He looks at me and smiles, laughing a little. What's so funny? Whatever. Then he looks above my head and his smile fades almost instantly. "Oh, shit," he says, dropping his cup. I turn around and look, and have just enough time to see the lights are on in the school before he grabs my arm and starts running. Everyone else is scrambling, too, and I really have no idea what's going on.

* * *

Dutchy, Crutchy (hahaha!), and I all go to their room because it's closer. When we get in the door, my two new friends just fall down and start cracking up. I start laughing too, I mean, I have no cluewhat we're laughing about, but it's hilarious.

"Welcome to J.P.'s, Specs," Dutchy says, laughing. "You have been properly initiated."

I start to say something witty and insightful that will make him fall madly in love with me, but instead, I just vomit.

"Aww, man," Dutchy pushes himself up off the floor and helps me to a bed. Suddenly, everything goes black.


	7. Surprise!

I wake up and the sun is trying to burn my eyes out of their sockets. My head is killing me, it feels like someone hasdropped a sack full of bricks on me. God damn. What is this? Did I get run over by a truck last night or something?

Wait a minute. Where the hell _am_ I? I look around with half-open, swolleneyes, completely puzzled and more thana little bit blind without my glasses. This looks like my dorm room: same layout, same generic wooden bunk beds. But there's no stupid poster of Santa Fe, and no gross, framed picture of Pam Anderson. Oh, and there's no one in here that snores like Spot does. Jeeze. That kid sounds like a freight train. I cringe just thinking about it.

Something's weighing me down on the bed, and I turn my head toward the wall to see what it is. I barely recognize the face at first, me without my glasses and he without his, but then I realize it's Dutchy. Dutchy! Slack-jawed in sleep and snoring ever so softly, and he's got his arm and leg thrown over me. Oh, _hell_ yes! Daniel Weinberg, you slick son of a bitch! I don't remember a damned thing from last night, but maybe we can have a re-run this morning. I'd love to have him jog my memory.Oh, man. I can't believe my luck. Befriending _and_ bagging the cutest guy I've ever seen, all in one--

"Oh, shit. Sorry, man." Dutchy rolls off of me, climbing over my feet to get out of bed. I'm apparently looking at him funny, so he laughs as he puts on his glasses and runs a hand through that perfect blond hair. He's in that white undershirt from last night (_that_ I couldn't forget)and boxers. _Dutchy slept next to me in his underwear. Wherein God's namewas I for this_? "You kinda passed out last night, and I wasn't gonna sleep on the floor just 'cuz you can't hold your liquor," he says with a wink.

I put on my glasses and look at the clock. It's one-thirty. In the afternoon. "What the hell did we _do_ last night?" I rub my hands over my face. I feel like death warmed over.

"Well, you got completely _tanked_ on jungle juice and puked on my floor. The rest of us had a party." He laughs. "You ever have alcohol before last night?"

"Not exactly," I say, looking over my rumpled clothes. By "not exactly," I mean not ever. At all. Well, except for wine my parents let me have now and then. But that doesn't count.

"You gotta learn control, my friend." Dutchy pulls jeans on and digs a clean shirt out of his dresser. "Now come on, let's go get something in you."

Damn straight, let's-- oh, wait. Right. Food. Damn. I get up and grab my shoes, pull them on as we walk out the door.

* * *

"So what are your plans for the day?" He looks at me while we walk to the cafeteria, smiling. 

I put a hand to my temple. "Curling up and dying." Dutchy laughs.

"Some food and maybe some ibuprofen'll help with that hangover. A shower wouldn't hurt, either."

"You telling me I smell?" I look over at him, pretending to be angry.

"You ain't exactly a basket of roses, pal." I laugh and punch him in the arm. "Hey, only a true friend would tell you that to your face!"

* * *

We eat breakfast and part ways for a little while, with plans for me to teach him how to do laundry later. God, he's the cutest thing ever. 

I take a shower and head back to my room, yawning. As I walk in the door, I find my roommates (and Racetrack, of course) sitting about lethargically, attempting to study. "Hey, fellas," I say, heading to my dresser for some clean clothes.

"What the hell happened to you last night?" Jack asks, setting aside his textbook. "We thought Snyder had caught you or something and you were in deep shit."

"Oh, I crashed in Dutchy's room." I pull a T-shirt over my head, then rub at my still-damp hair with the towel.

"You did, did you?" Spot leans over the side of his bunk and looks down at me, smirking. "And what did you and _Dutchy_ do?"

"Um... nothing?" I sit down on my bed, confused by his creepily curious tone. I grab my sketchbook and start working on my art project. We're supposed to draw something that defines our personality, and so I'm making a collage of various aspects of my life. I'm working on a particularly complicated (and undeniably awesome, if I do say so myself) menorah when David pipes up.

"You know he's straight, right?"

I very nearly drop my pencil. Slowly, I raise my head from my drawing and look at David, trying to appear nonchalant. "What?"

"Dutchy. He's straight." David is typing up an article on political-corruption this or social-obligation that for the school newspaper and doesn't even bother to look up from his laptop as he speaks. Like completely shattering my hopes and dreams is an everyday occurrence and isn't worth interrupting his work for.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I'm trying not to get defensive. I hope it's working.

"I'm just saying, don't get your hopes up."

"Don't get my hopes up? What the hell are you talking about?"

"_Please_, Specs. Fucking Blink could see your hard-on for Dutchy from a mile away with his eye closed." Spot flops onto his back and opens up a _super-macho-man-I'm-not-gay-I-swear!_ magazine.

"Spot, don't be an asshole." Racetrack scolds him and throws a pillow at him. As if Spot Conlon can _stop_ being an asshole. It comes as naturally as breathing to him, I swear.

"I just... Well, I guess I was really drunk last night and Dutchy just let me crash there." I go back to my drawing, concentrating harder than normal on shading a portion of it. "It's not a big deal, really."

David makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort and gets up to print his article.


	8. Laundry for Dummies

"What do you mean by separate?"

"Like, by color." I'm sitting on a washing machine in the dormitory's laundry room, playing my Gameboy and watching Dutchy inconspicuously out of the corner of my eye. He's standing in the middle of this humongous mountain of laundry, looking utterly, horribly lost.

"By color? Like how?" Poor kid.

"Reds with reds, blues with blues, whites with whites, and so on and so forth."

"Oh." And he starts digging through the piles, tossing clothes about like a madman. Before long, though, he has some loads separated out. "Hey, Specs?"

"Yeah?" I respond, engrossed in old-school Wario. I will freaking beat this game, I swear.

"What about this one?"

I look up from my game, and he's holding up a light-pink, button-up shirt. Straight, my ass. This guy is about as straight as a hula hoop.

"Um, reds." He tosses it onto the pile.

"Okay, now what?"

"Now, you put the clothesin the washer."

"Um, Specs?"

"Yeah, Dutchy?" I'm a wee bit impatient.His curious little voice is adorable, but currently preventing me from leveling up.

He looks at me, wide-eyed and innocent. "Um... which one's the washer?"

I start laughing so hard I that actually fall off the washing machine. I lay (okay, more like roll)on the floor for a minute, cackling. "Are you... Are you serious? Please tell me you're joking. That's just too rich to be real," I say, as I try to regain my composure.

"You don't have to laugh at me," he pouts, looking seriously embarrassed. "I never had to do this before."

"How on earth did you survive for two years here without learning to do laundry?" Good Lord. This kid. He just totally boggles my mind.

He looks sheepishly at me. "I used a laundry service. My parents said they won't pay for it anymore, 'cuz it's impractical, or somethin'."

I stifle a laugh, and with great difficulty. "Okay. Well, we'll start from the beginning." Standing up, I walk over to the closest washing machine and tap the top of it. "This is the washer, and you can tell the difference because the majority of them load from the top, rather than from the front, like a dryer does." He nods. I pick up a load and put it into the washer, making sure he's watching. "After you put the clothes in the washer, turn on the water. For this load, since it's kinda in-between dark and light, we're gonna use warm water. Okay?"

"Okay. Um, what about the soap and stuff?"

I grin. "So you're not completely clueless." He shrugs and smiles a little. I measure out the detergent from the box, and show him the cup. "How much detergent you use depends on how big the load is. Most of the time you'll need this much, so just measure it to this little line here." I dump the detergent into the washer and close the lid. "And now we wait until it's done, and then we put it in the dryer. But that's a whole other story. You wanna try it with that load, in that washer over there?"

"I guess." Dutchy gathers a load and copies my actions, step by step. I have to remind him a couple of times, but basically he's got it. He slams the lid down on the washer, grinning in victory. "Good?"

"Good," I say. "Next week, we'll conquer the art of the vacuum."

"I hate you, Specs," he says with a laugh.

"I know."

* * *

Dutchy and I end up spending most of our Saturday in the laundry room, slowly but surely bridging the wide gap between Dutchy and clean clothing. It's pretty quiet for a weekend, but I'm not complaining. I'm happy to spend time alone with him, even if he _is_ under the illusion that he likes chicks.

Speak of the devil. At that moment, a girl I vaguely recognize from one of my classes walks in with a basket of clothes. "Oh, hey, Dutchy," she says with a surprised little smile. Dutchy's head snaps up from his book and he smiles back, expertly hiding the look of mild discomfort that flashed over his face.

This girl is what I suppose one might call easy on the eyes (for a girl, anyway), not exceptionally pretty, but she definitely seems to hold his attention. I don't think I like her very much.

"Hey, Sarah," Dutchy says. There's an awkward silence hanging over the room for a moment as we all look at each other. "Oh, Sarah, this is Specs. Otherwise known as Dan Weinberg. He's, uh, Davey's roommate. Specs, this is Dave's sister, Sarah."

She smiles and nods in greeting, then turns her attention back to Dutchy. "Are we still on for tonight?" She asks this question so innocently, but I find myself suddenly wishing she would get run over by a steamroller in some freak construction accident.

"Oh, yeah," Dutchy nods and smiles, though I can see the complete disinterest in his eyes. "Um, Specs, we're goin' to a photography exhibition in the city tonight. You wanna go?" I'm pretty sure my stomach is somewhere down around my feet. Sarah tries to hide it, but she does not appear happy about this invitation.

"Um, no, thanks." I look around the room, trying to find a place to focus, anywhere but on him or Sarah. "Hey, I just remembered... I forgot that... thing... book... for English. In my room. I'll be back." I sprint out of the room like my ass is on fire and head up to my room.

Dutchy just invited me along on a _date_. With a _girl_. What is going on here? This is not okay!


	9. Bathroom

"What does she have that I don't?" I wonder out loud as I sit on my bed, eating my dinner (and by "dinner" I mean "peanut butter sandwich") and reading through my history textbook. I'm alone, so it's okay if I talk to myself, right?

"Tits," says a voice from the doorway, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Apparently, I'm not alone. Racetrack leans against the door frame, smirking in that smart-ass way that I hate. "Sorry, scare you?"

"A little. But it's cool. Hey, Race." I clear my books off the foot of my bed so he can sit down, and he does. "What's up?" Everybody else is out, so I wonder what he's doing here. He seems to sense this on my face and smiles.

"Just wanted to see how you were doin'. You seemed kinda bummed that everybody was goin' out."

"Well, it gives me some quiet time to study, and maybe actually sleep." We both laugh because we know that in this school, occasions on which you get any actual rest are few and far between. "How come you're stayin' in tonight? I figured you'd be out at that club with Jack and Dave."

"Nah." He shrugs, shakes his head. "They seemed to want some time to themselves tonight."

"Uh-huh. So, I'm confused. Are they...?"

Race chuckles, nods. "Yeah. They have been since freshman year." He smiles. "It's kind of cool, actually. Except when they start mackin' on each other in public."

I laugh. "I can see how that could be uncomfortable to innocent bystanders."

Racetrack leans over to look at my textbook. "Civil War, huh? I hate that shit."

"Me, too! Seriously. I cannot imagine a scenario in my life in which I will need information on guys with bad facial hair shooting each other."

Race just laughs. "So, I got a Playstation in my room. Care for a little healthy competition, or are you too smart for video games?"

I grin. "Prepare to get your ass kicked."

* * *

After several hours of shooting random passersby and stealing police cars in _Grand Theft Auto_, Racetrack's roommates, Pie Eater and Bumlets, come in and announce that they want to go to bed. I don't blame them, it's going on three in the morning. I say goodnight to Racetrack and go to grab my toothbrush from my room, satisfied that I have made another solid friend.

As I'm finishing brushing my teeth, one of the shower doors opened and Dutchy stepped out, clad only in a towel and his shower shoes. He's whistling something, which I recognize as "Mr. Cellophane" from _Chicago_ before he sees me and stops. "Hey, Specs!" He grins, using his extra towel to dry out his hair.

I finish rinsing my mouth and spit, then smile. "Hey," I say, a little bit shyly. I feel weird around him now. "Um... what are you doing up here?"

He stares blankly at me for a moment, then laughs a little. "All the showers on my floor were occupied. Weird, for three a.m., huh?"

"Yeah." I stick the handle of my toothbrush in the front pocket of my jeans. "How... how was your date?"

"My date? Oh, Sarah. Um, it was okay," he ducks into the shower stall and pulls on pajama pants and a white T-shirt, then comes back out. "I'm not really interested in her, I guess. She asked me out, and I get extra credit for going to that exhibition, so I figured, why not, y'know?" I nod. "So we went to that photography thing, and then I treated her to a late dinner and walked her back to her room. I think she was expecting something a little more, but..." He shrugs.

"But?" I lean back against the sink, watching him.

"Well, I kinda got a thing for somebody else."

"Oh." Of _course_ he does.

"So, how was your night?"

"Pretty good. I finished my art project, and studied some for my U.S. History test next week. Then Racetrack swung by and invited me to come over and play video games for a while, so that's what I've been doing for the past, like, six hours." I laugh, and he does too. He's so _gorgeous_ when he laughs.

"Well, that sounds like much more fun than what I did." I smile and shrug.

"I guess. Um, well, I think I'm gonna hit the sack. Goodnight." I head for the door.

"Hey, Specs?" I stop, halfway out of the bathroom. The way he says that always makes me want to pay attention.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for helping me with my laundry today." He smiles and blushes a little, like he's embarrassed to have needed help, and I smile back.

"No problem. G'night, Dutchy."

"Night."


	10. Feeling Good

It's eight o'clock Sunday morning, and instead of still being blissfully unaware of my surroundings and sleeping until mid-afternoon like I would prefer to be, I'm in the stairwell of my dorm, talking to my mom on my cell phone. The crazy woman who brought me into this world decided it was a wise idea to call her teenage son at seven-fifteen in the morning on a weekend, and I've been stuck on the phone with her since.

So far, she's updated me on every move every member of our family has made, asked my opinion on a new haircut (which I don't freaking care about, especially not this early in the morning), and asked me at least six times if I'm making sure all my food is kosher. That last part is really beginning to get on my nerves. Her voice in general is starting to get on my nerves.

"So, Danny," I _hate_ when she calls me that. "Are you getting good grades?"

"I've been here for six days, Mom."

"Well, that's no reason to not be succeeding. I'll bet you're at the top of your class." This woman makes no sense. "What about your roommate? How is he?"

"They're all fine."

"They? Are you in a group home, or something?"

"No, Mom." I sit down on a stair, resting my forehead on my hand. "I live in a quadruple. Remember?"

"Oh, yes, that's right. What are your roommates' names?"

"Jack Kelly, Dave Jacobs, and Spot Conlon."

"Really? Jacobs? Is he Jewish?"

I shake my head. "Uh, yeah, I think so."

"Well, isn't that nice. Have you made many friends?"

"Outside of my roommates, there's Racetrack, who lives across the hall from me, and there's Dutchy, and he lives one floor down. Dutchy's really cool, Mom. He's smart, and he's funny... oh, and he does photography. He's really good at it, too. He showed me some of his stuff. It's amazing. He's like, the next Ansel Adams or something."

"That's nice. Well, Danny, have you met any nice, Jewish girls yet?"

Ah, yes. The beginning of the infamous when-are-you-getting-married-I-need-grandchildren rant. It's been going on since I was eleven. It's a little tedious. "Uh, no, Mom. I've kinda been focusing, um, on my studies, and stuff."

"Oh." She doesn't even bother to try to hide the disappointment in her voice. "Well, Danny, I need to get going. Mrs. Liebowitz's daughter, Abby, you know her, the sweet, pretty girl up the street... Anyway, it's her birthday and I figured I'd make her a little something." Typical Jewish mom. Guilt-trip your son about getting married, and then go cook.

"Okay, Mom. Love you. Bye." I hang up before she has the opportunity to go off on another tangent.

Sighing, I lean back on the stairs and close my eyes. Despite being as exhausted as I am, I know I'm never going to be able to get back to sleep. So I head back to my room and grab my running shoes, and meander on out to the courtyard for a jog.

* * *

I used to run all the time back at home, just because it felt good. There's this really big park over by my house, and I used to run through there almost every day. If it wasn't raining, sometimes I'd bring my sketchbook and sit down and draw up elaborate stories featuring the people in the park. I loved it.

But one day, at the beginning of my freshman year, there was a group of guys from my high school playing football, and I guess I spent too long... well, shall we say, _studying_ them. They noticed me, and soon what was a game of football became a good, old-fashioned fag-bashing. This continued all throughout that year and up through the middle of sophomore year, until I transferred here to Pulitzer's. Since that first day, I haven't run unless I was running from somebody.

Today, however, I have no one to run from. Today I can run just because it feels good. And I do. I run around the campus until I'm nearly collapsing. I'm completely out of breath, and my shirt is soaked through with sweat. I pull it off, and lay down in the wet grass.

I laugh to myself, because I feel so fucking good. I lay my head back on the ground and close my eyes, still smiling.

* * *

My eyes open a short while later to the sound of rapid, repetitive clicks. I lift my head up and look around, getting used to the brighter sunlight, and see Dutchy over by the garden, taking pictures. As I sit up, he looks over.

"Hey." He slings his camera around his neck, then plops down beside me. "What're you doin' out here so early?" He says this as if one commonly finds teenage boys passed out and shirtless in the gardens at this school.

"Running," I tell him, still grinning. "What about you?"

"Taking pictures." Dutchy lifts his camera up and waves it at me.

"Okay, that was a dumb question." We both laugh. I look down at my watch, noting that it's ten-thirty. I've been gone far longer than I expected.

"You hungry? They're serving breakfast now. Sunday's usually pretty good."

* * *

We sit at breakfast, discussing the end of my first week at J.P.'s. Eventually, Dutchy asks why I came so late in the year.

"Well, I was changing schools anyway... and my art teachers had been bugging me since the fourth grade to apply here when I was in high school, and so I figured, it's now or never, so why the hell not?" I take a bite of my fruit, which isn't really all that satisfying after a long run, but nothing else looked all that appetizing, either.

"How come you were changing schools? Moving, or something?"

"Or something, yeah." I shove another forkful of fruit into my mouth, in hopes I will not have to answer any more questions.

"Well, what's the 'or something'?"

I swallow, grimacing. "Um... Honestly, I'd rather not talk about it. At least not yet."

"Okay..." He looks at me quizzically, but then appears to drop the issue. "So, how come you got up so early this morning?"

"My mother decided to call at, like, seven, to tell me all about my grandma's water aerobics class, and the new haircut she's thinking of getting, and to pester me about meeting girls."

"Pester you?"

"Yeah. Apparently, I was supposed to get married and start reproducing shortly after birth."

Dutchy nearly chokes on his orange juice. He makes the _cutest_ faces when he's trying not to die. Okay, no, not really.

"Man. I wish my mom would try and push me into relationships. Then I wouldn't feel so bad." He pushes away the few shaggy strands of hair that hang in his face. "She wants to keep me at home with her forever."

"Wanna trade?"

We both start laughing so hard that the teachers at the next table shoot us dirty looks. That only succeeds in making us laugh harder.

"God damn, Specs," Dutchy says when he catches his breath. "I don't know how I survived here before you came along."

Me either.


	11. Double Dutch

I walk back to my room after breakfast, making plans to meet up with Dutchy later for... well, I don't know what for. Point is, we're hanging out. I'm puttering around, getting ready to go take a shower, when Spot walks in.

"You stink," he says, climbing up onto his bed.

"Your face stinks," I reply. "I was running, what's your excuse?" Spot looks at me, his eyes hard and fiery. He mumbles something about kicking my sorry ass, but I know by now he's all bark and no bite.

Jack snorts and claps me on the back. "You got _cojones_, Specs."

I laugh and grab a towel, some clean clothes,and my shower shoes, and head off to the bathroom.

Today is going to be a very good day.

* * *

Dutchy and I sit in the courtyard, enjoying the sun while I draw a picture of him. It's turning out really well, but he keeps trying to peek at it.

"Would you stop?" I laugh, adding a superhero costume.

"Why?"

"It throws me off. It's like trying to take a leak when someone's watching you."

He chuckles. "Good analogy. You get ten points for that one."

"Why, thank you." I grin proudly. We sit in silence for a few minutes as I study him.

"So," he says finally, "if you're this good, how come you didn't start here freshman year?"

I shrug. "I didn't apply until the middle of first semester this year."

"And they let you in?"

"No, I infiltrated the school and am attending incognito."

Dutchy laughs loudly and shakes his head. "Man. They must think you're, like, the second coming of Christ, or something. They don't let anybody in middle of the year."

"I guess I'm just awfully special."

"I guess so."

"Finished." I sign the picture and carefully tear it out of my sketchbook, handing it to him. "You are Double Dutch, fearless defender of playground antics... Saving the world, one jump-rope at a time."

"Gee, thanks." He laughs again. "Here I was thinkin' I'd be something manly."

"Pfft," I say, shaking my head and trying to appear serious. "Double Dutch is the manliest son of a bitch that ever lived. Bitches _love_ him."

This causes him to fall back on the grass, cackling. I grin, taking advantage of the fact that he can't see me checking him out. I stare for a few moments before he sits back up, a little bit breathless. Oh, there are _so _many other things I could do that would leave him like that.

But enough of that.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" He looks at me, a little confused.

"How'd you get here?" I lean back on my elbows, looking out over the nearly-empty courtyard.

"It's kind of embarrassing."

"How? I mean, I know you're here for photography and you're really good at it, so what's embarrassing about that?"

"Well," he says, leaning back beside me, "it's one of those things where if people knew about it, I'd never hear the end of it." Rolling his head back on his shoulders, he sighs. "My dad's a benefactor for the school... so I was guaranteed a spot. I didn't even have to apply, but I did anyway because I didn't want to feel like I was just here because of Daddy and his money."

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. You're talented, that's what you're here for. You're not here because they want your father's money."

He smiles. "Thanks, Specs."

"Yeah." I smile back at him. Again, with the few minutes of silence. At least it's a comfortable silence. I pick up my drawing of Double Dutch, grab my colored pencils out of my backpack, and start coloring away.

After a few minutes, he speaks up. "Specs?"

"Yes." I don't look up from the drawing, but I am, in fact, paying full attention. I'm good at that.

"There's this movie opening on Friday, and I kinda wanna see it... except, I don't really wanna go by myself. I was thinking maybe you could come with me, and I could show you around the city."

"Why don't you take Sarah or some girl?"

"Because I don't want to?" He rolls onto his side and watches me color the picture, fascinated.

"Why, Mistah Visser," I say, attempting a Southern drawl, but my cliché New York accent kind of screws it up. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were asking me on a date."

He laughs, a little uncomfortably. "So you wanna go, or not? My treat."

"Sure."

He looks up at me and smiles, the sweetest little face I've ever seen. And he turns back to the picture, watching intently. "Cool. Friday it is, then."

Score!


	12. Bye Bye Sanity

The rest of the day passes by quickly and rather uneventfully, and before I know it, I'm curling into my bed, exhausted after my first week at Pulitzer's. I've decided I'm quite satisfied with myself, having come out of my shell a little and actually made some friends. _Real_ friends. That's never happened to me before. I even quit skulking around in avoidance of my roommates, _and_ developed the biggest infatuation in the history of mankind.

Though I'm not entirely sure that last part is exactly positive.

Tomorrow is Monday, and I'm thankful that I did the majority of my homework. It's the start of another week, a week that will undoubtedly be full of hard work. I know I have a couple of tests in my classes, including one in English. But according to the syllabus, it shouldn't be too hard, I know the material. It's on _The Grapes of Wrath_, and since I already read it, this test should be--_ zzzzzzz._

* * *

I wake up a few minutes before my alarm is supposed to go off to Jack and David coming into the room, giggling and whispering. They throw their towels into the hamper and grin at one another mischievously, and I don't even _want_ to know what went on. I'm just glad I took my shower last night.

I roll over and grab my glasses off of the nightstand, and take a minute to stretch. Turning off my alarm, I sit up.

"Mornin', Specs," Jack says, hurriedly detaching himself from David.

I mumble something in reply, not exactly capable of coherent speech yet, and head down the hall to the bathroom.

On my way out of the bathroom, my roommates, accompanied by Racetrack, Pie Eater, Bumlets, and their other roommate, Jake, walk by me. "Specs!" Someone calls out to me from the large group. I think it might be Dave. "We're going to breakfast, are you coming?"

I nod and follow obediently, desperate to get down to the cafeteria and find myself a cup of anything with caffeine.

* * *

After breakfast, we go back to our rooms to get ready for class. As I'm heading out, Racetrack comes out of his room. Throwing his arm around my shoulders, he grins.

"You excited, Specs?"

"Um... for what?" I adjust my backpack, which he's thrown off-balance.

"Today, Medda announces what the spring play is. We usually do a musical in the spring... it's pretty fun."

"Okay... so how does this affect me?"

Racetrack laughs. "Pal, you're in advanced drama. You're required to either audition or sign up for tech work." He grins. "If I were you, I'd audition. You get more credit for that. Besides, most of the 'serious' drama students are already working outside the school on plays, like Broadway an' shit. Pretentious assholes."

"Um, okay..." I am. So. Confused. "Can't I just do set design or something? I'm good at that."

"Good luck with that. Set design fills up fastest, and you're new, so you're at the bottom of the food chain."

"Shit."

Racetrack laughs and removes his arm from my shoulders when we get into the school building. "I'll catch you later, dude," he says, heading down the opposite hallway.

I trudge to math class, feeling nervous and unhappy. A play. Great.

I'm pretty sure I'm screwed.

* * *

In English, Dutchy and I are sitting and listening to Denton blab on about the social significance of John Steinbeck. He's making a few halfway decent points, but with this drama issue weighing down my shoulders, it's getting a little hard to care.

A piece of paper suddenly finds its way under my arm, folded in half. I unfold it, and Dutchy's handwriting greets me.

_**You're quiet today, you look a little freaked out. Everything okay?**_

I smile. It's sweet that he's worried about me. **_Just kind of panicking about this whole spring play thing. Race says I have to audition,_** I write, passing the paper back over to Dutchy.

A few moments later, the paper slides back to me. **_No worries. Medda will take pity on you. Besides, there's no guarantee you'll be cast. You might just end up with techie grunt work._**

I write back quickly. **_What if I do get cast?_**

**_I'm auditioning,_** Dutchy writes back. **_I'll keep you sane. You got nothing to worry about._**

_**Thanks. I have a feeling I'll need someone to tie me down when I try to kill myself.**_ I slide the note back to him, and he reads it and laughs out loud. Mr. Denton shoots a cold glare in our direction, and Dutchy quickly shuts up, but continues snickering quietly.

The bell rings after a few pained minutes of sitting quietly and listening to a social commentary on _Of Mice and Men_, and we head out into the hallway in a burst of relief. I'm silent the whole way, as we meet up with Jack and everyone else and head to drama.

* * *

"Come in, come in, sit down," Medda ushers us into the classroom in a hurry, shutting the door when everyone is in the room. "Well, I'm very excited about this year's spring play. I have a feeling it's going to blow every other play we've down completely out of the water."

I sit back, stiffly, trying not to look like I'm about to go fling myself out the fourth-story window.

"Now, I'm sure you all know that as advanced drama students, you'll be required to either audition for the play, or sign up for technical work." She pulls her flaming red hair back into a ponytail, rubbing her hands together. "I want you to remember that there is _no way_ out of this, unless, of course, you're Mr. Jacobs here," she nods to Dave, "who has so graciously volunteered to take care of all publicity by way of the school paper."

"Fucking loopholes," Spot grumbles, punching David in the arm.

"Ow!" David yelps, but Medda either doesn't hear or just ignores him.

"It took me a while to figure out a suitable play for this year. I wanted to do something fun, something we haven't done before that will really top off the year well." She sits down in her director's chair, smiling. "Do you know how hard it was to find something like that? I mean, there are so many _wonderful_ plays out there, and I knew I wanted a musical... and I had to find something of the right caliber for you guys..."

"Medda," Jack interrupts, "would you just tell us what the damned play is?" People chuckle, nodding in agreement.

"Fine, fine. Well, I was having myself a movie night, and I came across _Bye Bye Birdie_ at the video store, and I hadn't seen it, so I decided to watch it. I loved it – that Ann-Margret girl, she's really something, isn't she? – and anyway, I thought to myself, 'This would be a wonderful play for my students.' So that's this year's spring musical, _Bye Bye Birdie_. Have any of you seen it?" She looks around the classroom. "Does anyone know what it's about?"

A few scattered hands go up, and Medda nods, then goes on. "Well, it's a spoof on the hype of when Elvis Presley was drafted into the Army. The character based on Elvis, named Conrad Birdie, is pushed into a publicity stunt by his agent, Albert. He's going to perform a new hit written by Albert, called 'One Last Kiss,' on live television, and will give one lucky girl his very last kiss before going off to war. The girl chosen is named Kim MacAfee, president of the Conrad Birdie Fan Club in Sweet Apple, Ohio." She stops and takes a drink of water, then looks around the classroom to make sure everyone's still paying attention. I'm slumped in my seat, and I'm pretty sure I'm sweating.

"So anyway, Conrad, Albert, and Albert's secretary Rose, who, though Albert denies it, is also the love of his life, head out to Sweet Apple to stay with the MacAfees, much to the dismay of Kim's father. Kim, in the meantime, has a brand-new boyfriend, Hugo, who becomes horribly jealous and is understandably upset that all of this is going on. Throughout the course of the play, Conrad teaches the teenagers of Sweet Apple how to party, Kim's father goes a little bit crazy, and Albert's mother, Mae, comes along to add even more wackiness and sabotage the relationship between Rose and Albert." She leans back, eyes gleaming with anticipation for the play. Or maybe to watch me crumple up and die. "Eventually, Conrad grows tired of show business. This throws the whole balance of things off, and things get far worse before they get better. Anyway, this explanation is growing ridiculously long, so I'll let you find out everything between the lines as we work through the play."

I have a feeling that as we 'work through the play,' I will probably work through my head with a shotgun. But that's just me.

"Now, I've got the sign-up sheet for technical work here. Keep in mind that the classes below Advanced are assigned to do a lot of the lighter and simpler tech work and ushering, so all that's here is the really heavy-duty stuff. I know a lot of you have been doing this for a while, and so I ask that those of you who aren't so familiar with backstage work leave it to those who are more experienced." She sets the sheet down on the table in front of her. "Have at it."

Several people jump up and head to the front of the room. I start to get up and join them, but Racetrack puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes me back into my chair. "Trust me, you don't want that."

After everyone sits back down, she pulls out another sheet. "Alright. This one here is for the boys wishing to audition for a part."

This time, Racetrack practically drags me to the front.

"Mr. Weinberg! Or, rather, Specs," Medda says with a smile. "I would have thought an art student like yourself would be first on the list for set design."

"Well, that was my intention," I say, sliding an evil glare toward Racetrack, who's putting both his and my name down. "But Racetrack here wouldn't let me."

Medda laughs and shakes her head. "Well, Racetrack, I believe we've talked about you commanding my students... but I'm glad you find him suitable to audition as part of the cast." Racetrack grins, and Medda turns back to me. "Do you sing, Specs?"

"Um, I try not to," I say with a wince. "It's generally better for everyone involved."

Racetrack punches my shoulder lightly. "That ain't true. I heard him singin' in the shower a couple days ago. He's pretty damned good."

I blush. "I'm nothing special."

Medda smiles sweetly and brushes a hand along my cheek, a gesture I would find creepy and uncomfortable if it were any other teacher. "Specs, if you were really nothing special, you wouldn't be here."


	13. Wrestling With It

I scheduled my audition for three-thirty Wednesday afternoon. I figure that gives me enough time to find some music to use, and some time to jump off the roof of the school should I feel the need to.

But for now, I'm sprawling on my bed, playing my Gameboy, rather than studying for my English test like I told my mother on the phone I was doing. My mind starts wandering to Dutchy, and it's getting a little hard to concentrate on my video game, until there's a knock on the door and I'm suddenly smacked back into reality.

"Open," I call out, too lazy and comfortable to get up. The door opens, and Dutchy steps in. He says hello, and I wave.

"Whatcha doin'?" He closes the door, walking further into the room.

"Studying," I reply with a grin. He laughs. "What can I do for ya?"

"Oh, nothing. I was just bored, figured I'd see what you were up to."

I sit up and turn off my game. "Well, I'm always open for company. You wanna chill here a while?"

"Sure."

* * *

We hang out for a while, just sitting on my bed and talking, and then get into a card game called War. If you've never played it, I wouldn't recommend it. It's quite possibly the most frustrating game in the world.

"Damn," Dutchy says as I take yet another one of his cards. "I'm losing."

"Badly," I reply with a sly grin. "It's pretty sweet."

"Shut up, Specs."

"Hey, it's not my fault you suck."

He punches me in the shoulder and I set down my stack of cards. "Oh, it's on, Blondie." I leap from my spot and tackle him to the floor. I knock the wind out of him momentarily, but then he starts laughing and rolls over in an attempt to pin me down. Cards have gone flying every which way and it probably makes a pretty cool scene from the outside, but right now we're too busy wrestling to notice.

We roll around for a few minutes, laughing, struggling. Eventually, I pin him to the floor and stare him in the face. He looks back at me, his blue eyes flashing from behind his tousled blond hair.

Without thinking, I lean in and kiss him.

The kiss lasts for a few blissful seconds, and then I realize what I'm doing and scramble back off of him. Leaning against the side of my bed, I pull my knees up to my chest and bury my face in my hands.

"I'm sorry, Dutchy. I'm so sorry."

"Um, it's... it's okay."

I look up at him. He's blushing. _Blushing_. This is not fair. "No, it's not okay. This is _not_ okay."

"Why?"

"Because... because you're _straight_." I shake my head. I cannot believe myself.

He's silent for a while. A long, painful while. I force myself to look at him again. "What?"

His face turns even redder. "See, Specs, that's the thing... I don't know if I _am_."

I blink. "Don't know if you are what?"

He goes back to being silent again, but this time for just a few seconds. He looks down at the floor and mumbles something, which I can't even pretend I understood.

"What?"

"I said I don't know if I'm straight."

I sit and stare at him for a moment. My mind is going in too many directions at once and I can't handle it. "I... You... _What_?"

He sighs and looks up at the ceiling. "I always just figured I was, because my family always tells me it's what's _normal_." He shakes his head, and looks me dead in the eyes. "Then I meet you, and everything is so... different. Being friends with you is different from being friends with other guys. You make me _feel_ different."

I look at his face, I see the conflict of emotions in his eyes. I feel so badly for him, but at the same time, I want this so much. It's hard, being torn between being a friend and being a gay teenager.

"Um... do I make you feel different in a good way, or a bad way?"

"I... um, both. It feels good when I'm with you, and when I think about you, but then when I think about what it is that I'm feeling, it's..." He trails off, looking for the right word.

"Scary?"

"Completely." He sighs, and I smile.

"Things will be okay. I've been where you're at. It doesn't seem like it now, but you'll see pretty soon that there's nothing to be afraid of." Dutchy looks at me, confused, and I don't blame him. "You just gotta roll with the punches for now. See where things take you. Everything'll turn out the way it's supposed to."

He nods, and smiles weakly. "I think I should... I'm gonna go." He gets up, heads for the door. As he opens it, he turns around. "Um, I'll see you at dinner tonight?"

I smile and nod. "Absolutely."

He smiles back. "Thanks." And he's gone.


	14. Scared

Drawing relaxes me. It stresses some other artists out, what with all the minute details and the psychotic perfectionism that seems to be embedded into our brains at birth. But for me, it's kind of like getting a massage. Only better.

So right now, I'm holed up in my room, barricaded into a corner of my bed by pillows and blankets, drawing like it's going out of style. So far I've filled up three pages of my sketchbook, corner to corner (and my sketchbook is one of those giant pad-dealies), and there is no end in sight. I've mulled over my situation, and while I don't exactly see a solution anytime soon, I'm at least one more step towards actually being comfortable with it. I just hope Dutchy is, too.

I can't get his face out of my head. That look her gave me before he left. He looked so helpless and lost, like a little boy looking for his mommy. I can't help but wonder if I'm the one who put that look on his face, or if it was his own head.

I know those feelings he's having, that utter confusion, so well. I'd give anything to spare him from it, but at the same time, I know that he has to get through it on his own.

"Weinberg." Spot's thick Brooklyn accent snaps me suddenly back to reality. I raise my head from my sketchbook in surprise.

"Yes, Conlon."

"Uh, we're all headed down to dinner now. You, uh, wanna come with us?"

Huh. Maybe Spot Conlon isn't such an asshole after all.

* * *

I sit with the whole group at dinner, including Dutchy, who sits across from me silently and picks at his food. I try and make conversation.

"So, are you hoping to get any particular part in the play?"

He shrugs. I stare at him.

"Uh... I was kinda hoping for Albert. Or maybe Harry MacAfee." He shoves a forkful of salad into his mouth.

"You don't want to be Conrad Birdie himself?" I grin and drink some of my water.

He chews his salad carefully and takes forever to swallow. "I'm not exactly the rock-star type."

I nod, trying to will him to keep talking. After a good minute or so, it works.

"What about you?" He takes a sip of his water and looks at me, but I wonder if he's _really_ looking at me. "What part to you want?"

"Chorus." I shrug. "Or maybe, I'll be so God-awful that Medda'll want nothing to do with me."

He laughs. Finally, he laughs.

"Are you done?" I look down at his half-eaten food.

Dutchy ponders his plate for a moment as well, then nods. "Yeah. I'm not all that hungry tonight."

"Come on," I say, standing up. "I'll walk you back to your room."

* * *

We end up sitting on his bed, the both of us staring blankly at the wall next to Crutchy's bed for quite some time.

"Why did you kiss me?" Dutchy asks at length.

"I guess it just felt right." I rest my elbow on my knee and prop my chin in my hand.

"Even though you knew – thought, heard, whatever – that I was straight?"

"I couldn't really help myself. I just... I wasn't thinking." I sigh. "I'm sorry, Dutchy."

He shakes his head, his blond hair shaking adorably with it. "Don't be sorry. I mean, everything was bound to come out sooner or later, anyway. I was just... I guess I was just hoping I'd be able to hide it, for just a bit longer... or forever."

"Why?" I can't help but ask. I'm kind of an idiot that way.

"I told you about my dad."

"So? I fail to see what your father has to do with any of this."

Dutchy sighs and falls back onto his pillows. So all the staff get back to him on every little thing I do. If word gets out that I'm... that I'm a _fag_, I'm in deep shit." My face falls at his use of the F-word, but he doesn't see it. "He'll pull me out of school. As much as he supports this place, with all the money and equipment he supplies, he still thinks everyone that goes here's a bunch of fairies. If he gets even the slightest notion that I'm one of them, he'll drag me out of here and ship me off to military school faster than I can blink."

I stare blankly at him for a moment. "So you've been hiding your feelings up until now, because of this."

He nods. "I was doing great, too, 'til you came along. Now here you are, and you're amazing and fun and smart and talented. You make me feel different than anybody else ever has in my whole life, male _or_ female."

I look at him. What he's saying to me would normally make me grin and blush and giggle like some kind of schoolgirl or whatever. But right now, all it's doing is just confusing the hell out of me and upsetting me. "So follow it," I say, examining his face. I see no shortage of emotion there, and none of it seems to be particularly good.

He sighs again and shakes his head. "I'm fucking _scared_, Specs."

"Well, Dutchy, I'm sorry I scare you."

I stand up and am out the door before he has the opportunity to say anything else.


	15. Friends?

I'm sitting in English, with Dutchy's words from last night still ringing through my head. I've done my best to not make eye contact – or _any_ contact, for that matter – with him all day. So far, I've managed to be successful, but it's a little bit difficult to continue ignoring him now that he's sitting right next to me. I'm embarrassed and ashamed of myself for what I said and how I left last night, and I want to apologize, but frankly I just don't have the balls.

Dutchy's been mopey all day, too. He didn't even try to say hi to me when he walked into class. He just plopped down in his seat and cracked open his book.

I sneak a glance at him. He looks bone-tired, with dark circles under his eyes, and I wonder if he slept at all last night. I look away before he notices me staring at him and go back to reading my own book.

A few minutes later, a folded-up piece of paper falls into my lap. I really should be getting used to these notes by now.

**_You don't scare me._**

I smile. I feel the sudden urge to kiss him, but then I remember just how well it turned out the last time I tried that.

**_So you don't hate me?_** I write back. It seems like forever before the note comes back to me.

**_Hate you? Why would I hate you?_**

It takes all my strength to resist the urge to jump up and cheer. **_Because I'm a douche bag. But I'm glad you don't think so._**

**_No, I do think you're a douche bag,_** he writes. **_But I like you anyway._**

I chuckle softly as I read this. Grinning, I write back. **_Smart-ass. So, friends?_**

_**For now.**_.

This catches me entirely off-guard. I stare, stupefied, at the paper for nearly a minute before I can actually write anything again. **_What does that mean?_**

**_I think... we should talk about this later._**

Before I can write back or get any more reading done, the bell rings. I guess I'll have to be confused for a while _and_ have homework tonight. Two things I absolutely hate.

* * *

The rest of my classes go by without a hitch, but I don't get much work done because my mind is dwelling on Dutchy's note. But then again, it hasn't been a very busy day schoolwork-wise, so I guess it doesn't really matter.

On my way out of the art classroom, I run into Dutchy. Like, literally _run into him_.

"Sorry, man," I say, crouching down to help him pick up his photo prints. "I really gotta learn to watch where I'm going."

"It's okay, Specs," he laughs. "I wasn't paying much attention, either." There's one print he seems to take extra care not to let me see. I wonder what it is for a moment, but then I figure it's probably personal and let it go. "So, where ya headed?"

"Choir library." I hand his prints to him. "I gotta get some sheet music for my audition. What about you?"

"Oh, I'm gonna stick some of these in my portfolio, and get some ready to enter for the showcase at the end of the year." He smiles, putting his photographs into the manila folder he's holding. "But that can wait for a little while, if you want some help picking out your music."

* * *

We stand in the choir library, dumbfounded. Well, okay, _I'm_ dumbfounded and Dutchy is standing there, smirking at me. Not only is it packed floor-to-ceiling with music, but it's all so freaking _complicated_. It's going to be next to impossible to find a piece of music that's easy enough for me. I mean, sure, I can read music just fine and all, but I'm nowhere near this level.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter under my breath.

Dutchy just laughs. "Yeah, our choir's kinda hoity-toity about their music."

I look at him, a little aggravated. "No shit, Sherlock."

"Hey, if you don't mind waiting for me to put my photos away, you and I can catch a cab into the city and head to a music shop... Sheet music's pretty cheap and the music stores should have something that's a little below this level." I imagine some Southern lady in a fussy dress, but with my face. _My hero! Swoon._

"Are we allowed to go off-campus on weeknights?"

He grins. "Didn't you read your student handbook? As long as we're back before curfew, and don't get in trouble with law enforcement – which is to say, as long as we don't get caught – we're totally okay." He adjusts his bundle of photographs and schoolwork in his arms. "So what do ya say? We'll get dinner and look around the music shops for a little while."

"Well, okay. But I gotta be back here in time to get some of my homework done."

"Yeah, this won't take very long." He jerks his head toward the door, and we head out and up towards his room.

* * *

"You got anything you need to grab before we head out?" He says as we walk into his room and he grabs his portfolio.

"Um, I could probably stand to take a sweatshirt along, it might get kinda cool tonight."

"That would probably be a good idea. Why don't you go do that, and I'll call the cab. Meet me back down here in a couple minutes?"

"Sounds like a plan." I head off to my room.

* * *

In the city, I'm a little bit nervous. People keep looking at me funny. I've never been anywhere in New York City other than the major tourist spots – you know, Times Square and the like. Dutchy has instructed me to keep my wallet in the pocket of my hoodie rather than the back pocket of my jeans, and as I notice people getting victimized by slick street thieves, I understand why.

We've hit the music store already – it was much easier to navigate than the choir library at Pulitzer's. Dutchy convinced me to pick out a song from a musical – this kid is apparently really into show tunes, which says a _lot – _and we settled on "Easy Street" from _Annie_. Dutchy explained to me that while it's simple enough for me to do on my own, it's got enough range for me to really show off. I, however, don't want to show off – I want to be cast aside at auditions. But Dutchy doesn't care.

"If you're going to do something, you might as well do it right," he told me while we were in the music shop. Now that we're sitting on the guardrail of a subway staircase, eating dinner (and keep in mind that tonight, dinner equals pretzels and pizza from a street-corner vendor), that phrase keeps ringing through my head. It seems to be true for everything lately.

"So I'm thinking, since my audition's right before yours, we can go together," Dutchy says as he shoves a chunk of mustard-soaked pretzel into his mouth. "We could even warm up together beforehand." It's adorable, the way he sounds when he talks with his mouth full. Pure New Yorker.

"That sounds good." I take a bite of my pizza, and smile, because it's so much better than cafeteria food.

Dutchy goes silent for a minute, and I figure he's just enjoying his pretzel. But then he speaks, tentatively. "Specs," he says, swallowing his pretzel. "Um... do you think it's weird, or wrong, that I kind of _wanted_ you to kiss me yesterday?"

And we're back to the kiss. As if it hadn't made things awkward enough. I sigh. "Do _you_ think it's weird or wrong?"

"Yeah... well, no... I don't know. That's why I asked you." He takes a drink from his soda.

"Well, Dutch, it isn't really about what I think here." I smile comfortingly as I look at him. "What I think isn't going to help you sort out what you're feeling."

He just stares at me. I _hate_ when he looks at me like that.

I clear my throat. "See, I don't think it's wrong that you wanted that. I think it's _great_. And I think it would be even greater if you kind of wanted to bone me. But that isn't going to help you out." Dutchy laughs and shakes his head.

"Let's get a cab and get back to school."


	16. Kiss A Girl!

This has been the longest, most slow-moving day of my life. Longer and slower than the car ride from my house in Buffalo to Pulitzer's. Longer and slower than even the lines at Disneyland.

But somehow, I've made it.

Now, I'm sitting outside the drama classroom, reading over my sheet music and trying to ignore the distracting tinkling of piano keys floating through the doors. That's especially hard to do when you're so nervous you're actually, physically shaking, and every noise around you is amplified.

Suddenly, the double doors burst open and Dutchy strides out, a huge smile plastered on his face. Medda's assistant, a small, pretty girl named Caroline who I recognize from English, scurries out behind him. She skims down the list on her clipboard. "Daniel Weinberg?"

I freeze and stare up at her. Dutchy nudges me with his foot and I spring up with surprise. "Break a leg, Specs," he says, shoving me through the doors.

Honestly, I really hope I do. Then I wouldn't have to do this play.

* * *

I walk out of the drama room, a blank stare on my face. I was the last audition of the day, so Medda follows me out. "Okay, boys," she says, smiling that famous smile. "You were the final auditions, so expect the cast list up at lunch tomorrow."

Everyone scatters, voiced erupting in a cacophony of conversation.

Finally exhaling, I lean against the wall. Dutchy laughs at me. "You okay?"

I shrug. "That was the single most nerve-wracking event of my life." I shove my sheet music into my backpack in disgust. "I don't think I did very well." Sulking, I look up and down the hallway.

"I bet you did great," he says. "Come on, Pouty McPouter-face. I'll buy you a coffee."

* * *

It's raining outside, so rather than go out to the courtyard like we normally would, we sit in the cafeteria with our coffee and discuss our auditions. Dutchy is pretty confident about being cast in a decent role, while I am confident that I am going to be the laughing stock of the drama department for years to come.

"Specs, it's not going to be that bad. If you're in the chorus, no one will really see you anyway." He drinks his coffee, leaning against the window. "Besides, it's fun to do a musical. You get to bond with people over the complete mental and physical agony you're in."

"But people _will_ see me. And my _mom_ will come, and she'll stand up in the audience and scream, '_That's my boy! Everybody look at my baby!_'"

"Aww, but it'll be cute."

"Oi vey." I shake my head, then mentally kick myself for saying the two words I promised myself I would never utter in my life. "Oh, my God. Dutchy, please shoot me if I ever say that again."

He laughs. "Will do."

* * *

The day passes in a blur of nerves and confusion. I can't sleep most of the night, and drag through my first classes in the morning before lunch. As I walk out of math, Dutchy grabs me by the arm and drags me to the performing arts wing.

"Cast list is up!" He says excitedly as we barrel through the halls. "We gotta check it out!"

There's a small crowd gathered around the bulletin board outside the drama room. Dutchy comes to a halt right in front of the male cast list.

I skim my eyes down it.

**Joseph Pulitzer School for Artistically Gifted Youth**

**Spring Musical 2006: _Bye Bye Birdie_**

**Male Cast List**

**Conrad Birdie: Jack Kelly**

**Albert Peterson: Johannes Visser**

I almost squeal with joy as Dutchy does. This is the part he wanted most. I'm so excited for him. And of course, Jack is Conrad Birdie. It only makes sense, what with his rock-star personality already built in.

**Harry MacAfee: Anthony Higgins**

**Randolph MacAfee: Nathaniel Conlon**

Pah! Spot's name is _Nathaniel_? Oh, just wait until I get the opportunity to pull _that_ one out.

**Hugo Peabody: Daniel Weinberg**

Boy, I feel sorry for that son of a – _what_! I nearly faint. I actually got cast. And not just as part of the chorus. As a semi-important character. How the hell did that happen?

"Way to go, Specs!" Dutchy slaps me on the back. "Man, this play is going to _rock_."

David is standing with Jack, grinning. "Wow, Specs, I didn't even think you were serious about this. Hugo! That's pretty good."

I blink. This... is horrible.

"Oh, and by the way, Specs," Racetrack adds with a sly grin, "you might have to kiss a _girl_."

Okay. Eww.


	17. Insomnitrack and a Seminondate!

**A/N: Pay very closeattention to the author's note at the end of the chapter!**

* * *

Thursday night there is absolutely nothing to do. Dutchy is studying for a science test, Jack and David are God-knows-where doing God-knows-what, and Spot – ha ha, _Nathaniel_ – is in his bunk, snoring like a fucking freight train. So I'm sitting on my bed with my headphones on, pretending to read one of my textbooks while really just tapping the rhythm to the song on my pillow. I'm trying my hardest to be quiet, so I don't wake Spot up (I fear he will make me eat my own face if I do), but it's kind of difficult when you're listening to ska and you want to dance. 

My door swings open, and Racetrack strolls in, looking cocky. I'm not quite sure why I say that, exactly, because he _always_ looks cocky, but right now I suppose more so than usual. I take my headphones off. "Hey, Race."

"Heya, Specs!" He grins, leaning against the door frame.

"What're you so happy about this evening?"

Racetrack laughs. "Got laid." He shrugs. "Wanna come over to my room and play some video games? I'm kinda bored."

"I thought you just got laid. How can you be bored?"

"Well, that was like twenty minutes ago. Seriously, come over. My stupid roommates are at study group and I'm bored out of my fucking skull."

The snoring stops. Spot's gruff voice comes down from the bunk above mine. "God, would the two o' you shut the hell up? I'm tryin' to sleep here!"

Race and I snicker. I get up and head across the hall to his room, which is a complete disaster area. Like a nuclear fallout zone.

"Jesus, Race, what happened in here?" I look around at the clothes strewn about everywhere, and books and magazines and food wrappers covering the floor. "You sure as hell aren't much into housekeeping."

"Hey!" Race laughs, kicking aside some stuff and throwing down two pillows in front of the television. "**I'm a great housekeeper... every time I leave a man, I keep his house!**"

"And you say you're straight..." I sit down with a laugh and pick up a controller.

* * *

Friday morning I am dragging. I have _got_ to learn not to indulge every one of Racetrack's insomnia-inspired fancies. Last night we ended up sitting on the roof of the dormitory in the rain, listening to the Dropkick Murphys on Race's CD player. I got back to my room, soaking wet, at five-thirty this morning, and I had to be up and at breakfast at quarter to eight. 

Sometimes, I really hate that kid.

Right now, I'm trudging, zombie-like, from the library where I spent my lunch break "studying" (also known as "napping") to English, when along comes Dutchy, bouncing through the hallway happily and singing "Put on a Happy Face" at the top of his lungs. Straight. Yeah. Straight like George Michael.

"Hey, Specs," he chirps. "How come I didn't see you at breakfast?"

"I got some coffee and went to take a late shower."

"Jeeze, what happened to you? You look like you got hit by a truck or something."

"Racetrack happened to me." I slump against the wall outside Mr. Denton's classroom.

"Oh, he tell you he got bored?" I nod. "Man, don't ever hang out with him past eight-thirty. Especially not on a weeknight. It always ends badly."

"No kidding." I give him a look like I'm about to punch him if he gives me any more too-late advice.

He laughs. "So, we still on for tonight?"

"Uh... on for what?"

"You said you'd go into the city with me and we'd go see that new movie... the one with Johnny Depp."

Oh, shit! My head snaps up from staring sleepily at my shoes. "God. I totally forgot... yeah, we're still on. What time?"

"How about after dinner... seven-thirtyish? We can catch a late show."

"Sounds good."

The warning bell sounds, and we head into class. My day has just gotten so much better, now that I've been reminded that I have a semi-non-date with Dutchy.

* * *

**A/N: I got bored and decided to entertain myself. So I'm holding a little contest. This fic seems to be pretty popular, and people keep telling me to update faster because they want to read more... so I'm giving you, my beloved readers, the chance to do just that. See the quote from Racetrack, in bold, up there? The first person who replies to the chapter and correctly tells me who originally said that quote, gets Chapter Eighteen of AVTL delivered to their e-mail inbox twenty-four hours before it gets posted here on FFnet. So, answer the trivia correctly, and you get to read the chapterBEFORE EVERYBODY ELSE. Exciting, yes? Oh, and please don't leave me just the name of the person who said it. Leave a normal review, just add that on to it. You guys are the bestest! -Layne**


	18. It's Like A Mandy Moore Song

**A/N: The contest in the last chapter was won by Liams Kitten and Accidental.Enlightenment, but she told me to give it to someone else... and so they won't be eligible for the next contest, but the good news is, THERE WILL BE ANOTHER ONE. Just not for a few more chapters. -Layne**

* * *

It's seven-fifteen, and here I am, sitting at the desk in my room, tapping a pencil anxiously against the pages of my United States History textbook in a failed attempt to concentrate on homework. I've showered and shaved already, and I've brushed my teeth approximately six times since I ate dinner, and these last fifteen minutes are positively killing me.  
Racetrack was nice enough to let me borrow his best dress shirt, though I didn't exactly tell him what it was for, and I decided to comb my hair back, rather than parting it in the middle like I normally do. I have to say, I look pretty damned good. Hell, I'd do me, if I were another gay (or questioning) man.  
"You got a date or somethin', Specs?" Jack asks as he and David walk in from dinner. "Or are you just all dolled-up for no reason, like some housewife?"  
"Housewife? Jack, what in the hell are you talking about?" David looks at him like he's crazy. I don't blame him, the housewife comment didn't make a whole lot of sense to me, either.

"You know, vacuuming in pearls… except Specs is studying in dress clothes and cologne."  
"Uh… huh… yeah, that was a bad analogy." David shakes his head in confusion looks at me. "Anyway, yeah, are you going on a date?"  
"Um, no. I'm, uh, going into town to see a movie." I scratch my head.  
"Alone?" Jack leans against his bedpost, one eyebrow cocked quizzically.  
"Well, no."  
"So it's a date," David smirks. It doesn't work for him. Smirking and being a smart-ass are two of the very few things David Jacobs is completely terrible at.  
"I told you guys, it's not a date!"  
"Well, who are you going with, then?" They both look at me expectantly.  
I feel myself blush, which pisses me off, and I'm sure that makes my face turn even more red. "Dutchy."  
They smirk. "He's straight, pal…" Jack says, actually looking like he might pity me a little bit.  
"He's dating my sister," David chimes in.  
"So what?" I snap. "Friends can't go to a movie together? Jesus, I wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition!"  
"NOBODY EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION!" They yell this in unison, then fall together, cracking up. At this moment, Dutchy appears in the open doorway, looking a little confused. I have never been so grateful to see anyone in my entire life.  
Dutchy looks at Jack and David and then at me. "Uh… you ready to go?"  
"More so than you could possibly imagine."  
We head down to the front of the dormitory and get in the cab he's called. As we pull up in front of the movie theatre, I quickly hand the cabbie half of the fare, before Dutchy can protest.  
"Specs, you don't have to do that. I can get the fare."  
"I don't want you to have to pay for everything."  
"Okay, but I'm paying for your movie ticket." I open my mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. "I invited you. I pay. Now, let's go see this movie."  
I sigh in exasperation. "Fine by me."

* * *

After the movie, we wander around the city for a little while. Dutchy shows me Central Park, which I never got the opportunity to really see when I visited New York City with my parents.  
"So, I kinda liked the movie," Dutchy says, kicking a rock out of the way and sending a flock of pigeons flying.  
"Yeah, me too. Johnny Depp is one good-looking man." I sigh in an overly dramatic, dreamy sort of way, and Dutchy chuckles nervously.  
"Um, sure," he says, watching the pigeons regroup a few feet away.  
We wander around quietly for a little while, with me taking in the sights and Dutchy explaining certain things to me now and then.  
We play "count the bums" for a while, and once we get past Bum Number Seventy-Three, Dutchy stops. "Um, Specs?"  
I stop and look around, wondering what we're standing still for. "Uh… yeah?"  
He shuffles his feet and stares at the ground. It's quite possibly the most precious thing I've ever seen. "Look, I've been thinking…"  
I wait a beat. "About what?"  
He looks up at me. "Please don't interrupt me right now, this is kind of important."  
I blink. "You paused. I thought you wanted me to say something."  
"Seriously, Specs."  
He looks at me pleadingly and I nod, staring at him in bewilderment. I'm pretty sure he's going to tell me we can't be friends anymore, because he's afraid my gay-ness is rubbing off on him. Just the thought of it makes me angry. I knit my eyebrows together.  
"Look, Specs, I - please don't look at me like that - I've been thinking, you know, about… lots of stuff… and I think I've finally come to a conclusion." I nod, waiting for him to keep going. "I've been really confused lately, and I guess it's not like you really brought it all on, I mean, I've been feeling these things for a while here but just figured they were passing moments of insanity… but here you are, and everything is so strong now. Intensified." He sighs and leans against a statue. I don't even mention that he's probably covering the back of his shirt in bird shit and God knows what else.  
"So I went over everything in my head, over and over again, and I decided that I think I want to give this a try."  
I nod and stare at him, confused.  
"This is the part where you're allowed to say something."  
"Sorry… give what a try?"  
Dutchy sighs again and shakes his head. "God damn it, Specs." And before I know it, he's standing right in front of me. He puts his hands on either side of my face, and presses his lips firmly to mine. I yelp a little in surprise, and then I relax. Just as my arms find their way around his waist, he pulls away.  
This time, when I open my eyes and examine his face, it isn't wide-eyed and shocked. He looks relaxed, even a little bit happy with a small smile on his lips. I stand and just look at him for a moment, and he nods.  
"That was good," he says, pushing his hair out of his face. Not knowing what to say in response, I smile. No, I full-on grin. This is probably the greatest moment I've ever experienced in my sixteen years. "I like you."  
"I like you too, Dutchy," I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. I feel suddenly very nervous. I've never outright admitted my romantic feelings toward someone. It's nerve-wracking, but it feels good.  
Dutchy's face breaks out in a huge grin. He wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my forehead. It's the sweetest gesture anyone has ever done for me. As he lays his head on my shoulder, he says, quietly, "I want to be with you, Specs."  
I sigh and put my arms around him as well. Nodding, I whisper, "I want to be with you, too." 


	19. Taking It Slow

As we walk through the hallway on Dutchy's floor, we notice how completely dead-quiet it is. I find this strange, being that it's a Friday night, and at least one person should be having a loud, belligerent dorm-room party.

Dutchy unlocks the door to his room, and we step inside. Kid Blink, Mush, and Crutchy are all gone, and there is a note attached to Dutchy's pillow.

_**Dutch-**_

_**Crutchy went home for the weekend to see his folks, said he oughta be back Sunday night. Me and Mush went out to a party with Jack and Dave and the boys, may or may not be home tonight.**_

_**-Blink**_

"Huh," Dutchy says, scratching his head. "Oh, yeah. Itey's brother is having a party at his place tonight." He sits on his bed, looks around the empty room. "They usually stay the night out there."

I nod, looking around as well and standing awkwardly. "I guess that means they took Spot with them, huh?" Sweet! Peace and quiet tonight... and _sleep_!

"Yeah, probably. Um, if you want, you could stay in here tonight... you know, so you aren't in your room alone." He looks up at me, those blue eyes so sweet and innocent, I can't help but laugh.

"Dutchy..." I shake my head. "I don't know if that's really such a good idea. I mean, maybe we should take things slow."

He stares at me for a moment, his mouth hanging open, and then he laughs nervously. "No, Specs, I... that's not what I meant at all." I exhale in relief and we both grin. "I really meant you could stay here so you wouldn't have to be alone. But... mostly so I wouldn't have to be alone." He smiles and stands up. "So, whattaya say?"

I shrug. "I guess," I say, looking around and focusing unintentionally on his bed. "But no hanky-panky."

He laughs at this, a loud, truly happy laugh that I love. I take in that smiling face, that tall frame, and remember that moment in the park, and I think: _This is mine_.

Dutchy grins at me and then changes into pajamas – plain flannel PJ pants and a wife beater. I've never seen anything be so sweet and so attractive at the same time.

"So, we can share my bed, or you can take your pick of any of the others. I'd stay out of Blink's bunk, though, because God knows what he does up there." I look up at Blink's bunk, above Crutchy's, and my eyes widen a little. Dutchy laughs. "He and Mush have kind of a... _thing_ going on."

"God, are there _any_ straight guys at this school?"

"Supposedly, Racetrack and Spot are." Dutchy shrugs and tosses his clothes into the hamper, then sits back down on his bed.

"Yeah, I'll believe that when I see it."

He laughs and that laugh turns into a yawn. "So, which bed are you takin'?"

"Like I'm going to pass up the chance to be in bed with you, even if we aren't gonna go at it like rabbits." He laughs.

"Well, you have a point." Dutchy looks me over. "You're not sleepin' in your clothes, are ya?"

I blush. I forgot about that. I don't want to run up to my room just to change into my pajamas. "Um... close your eyes." Yes, I'm self-conscious and shy. Shut up.

He closes his eyes and I strip down to my boxers and undershirt, then climb under the covers beside him. He opens his eyes and laughs, shaking his head. "Are we afraid of being seen in our skivvies?"

"I'm shy, leave me alone." I blush and push him over. "Besides, you can't make fun of me, you just said _skivvies_."

"It's a good word!" Dutchy laughs, rolling onto his side and propping his head up with his elbow.

"Yeah, but this is New York, which is in _America_, not England. No one says shit like that here."

He makes a pouty face. "I do." I laugh and kiss him.

It's the sweetest feeling in the world when you kiss someone and they kiss you back. Especially when it's a new thing between the two of you, at that first-starting-out point where you're not quite sure of anything. But when the two of you are kissing, that's the one thing you _are_ completely, undeniably sure of.

His lips are soft and taste a little bit sweet. He opens his mouth to me and our tongues meet, slow and soft and shy, and his hand finds its way to my chest. It rests there, almost possessively, and I sigh a little.

We kiss, deeper and deeper, until it's a teen-aged frenzy of lips and tongues and teeth. Both of our breathing has quickened, and I'm beginning to feel a slight pressure against my thigh where Dutchy is leaning against me. His hand starts to make its way down my stomach and I want this, so badly, but I pull away.

"Dutchy..."

"What?" He looks me in the face, panting, just as I am.

"We need to stop."

Dutchy sighs and rests his forehead on my collarbone. Draping an arm over my stomach, he nods. "Okay." He sits up a little and reaches over, turning off the light. He lays back down with his head on my chest, and we lie there in the dark for a while.

I run my hand over the back of his head, smoothing down the slightly messed-up hair. After a few minutes of silence, a question pops into my head. "Hey, Dutchy?"

"Yeah, Specs?" His voice is slightly sleepy, like he's barely staying awake.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"You and me... is this what you want?"

"I wouldn't have said anything if it wasn't." He rubs my side a little, and I smile, comforted.

"Okay."

And that smile is still on my face as we drift off to sleep together.


	20. So Is Your Face

I wake up and Mush is giggling and poking me in the stomach with a pencil. I swat his hand away and roll over, then open my eyes and wonder, _What the hell is Mush doing in my room? _I see Dutchy, and I smile, remembering where I am. Dutchy opens his eyes slowly, and they quickly widen at the sight of Kid Blink and Mush standing next to his bed, laughing.

"Comfy?" Blink snickers and shakes his head.

Dutchy sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Hi, guys," he says, and grabs his glasses off the desk, hands me mine as well. "We were just..."

"You don't gotta explain," Mush says with a giggle. "We understand _completely_." He looks us over, the twisted sheets, entangled legs, and my exposed boxer shorts, as Dutchy is a blanket thief. "Well, it looks like you guys had fun last night."

I blush. Blink throws his head back and laughs. "You guys're too much." Shaking his head, he sighs happily. "God, if only the fellas could see this."

"Blink, you can't!" Dutchy exclaims in alarm. "This is--"

"I know, I know." Blink grabs some clean clothes, then ducks behind the dresser to change. He's weird, but he's modest. "You can trust me."

Mush snickers. "You, uh, _lovebirds_ should get outta bed. We gotta be in the drama room in half an hour."

* * *

The downside of going to a boarding school, especially one centered around the arts, is that they fucking _own_ you, even on the weekends. Example: Saturday morning play rehearsals.

A roomful of sleepy-eyed teenagers sit, staring at Medda as she checks off the cast list.

"Well, it looks like you're all here. Now, before we start, does anyone have any questions?"

I raise my hand.

"Specs?" Medda smiles.

"Yeah. Have you lost your mind?"

She laughs. "Why, because I didn't throw you off to the side? Honey, just be glad I didn't make you Conrad Birdie. Believe me, I considered it." I shake my head. "Anyone else have any other questions?"

The room stays silent for a moment. I'm pretty sure Spot is actually asleep.

"Great. Well, let's lay down the ground rules. First of all, we'll cover rehearsals. Rehearsals are the most important part of the play. I expect you all to be at every rehearsal, unless you have a decent, verified excuse. An example of such an excuse is that you have pre-arranged family business, such as one of our cast did today, or you are on your deathbed. Otherwise, you are to be at _every single rehearsal_." She looks around at us, and glares a little bit. Medda isn't very good at being threatening. "Now, I want you to think of rehearsals as your job. As work. It should fit nicely into your life. I expect all of you to keep up with your classes, and you should, in theory, be able to work around your social life. But that does not mean you can be out partying until three in the morning and come to rehearsal to sleep." She shoots a glare toward Spot and Jack, slumped in their chairs. "With work comes responsibilities."

"_She pays the food and the rent and the utilities, we keep our mind on our work responsibilities, don't let your mouth overload your capabilities..._" Dutchy sings, which is answered by a chorus of groans (including one from Medda) and several wadded-up pieces of paper thrown at his head. Seriously... our relationship is all of twelve hours old, but I don't know if I can handle the show tunes.

Medda shakes her head and continues. "Mr. Visser, that's the wrong musical. Back to the subject at hand, please, if the rest of you don't mind. I expect all of you to be entirely devoted to this play. You _will_ have to practice outside rehearsals – that includes not only spoken lines, but songs and dances. Our school has a reputation for producing performances and artists of a certain caliber, and I am not about to lower my standards for you or allow the people who come to see this play be disappointed. If you intend to give this play any less than one hundred percent, I want you to get up and leave this room now."

I stay in my seat, but in all honesty, I am scared completely out of my mind.

* * *

"So, Race, you never did tell us who exactly you were goin' at it with Thursday night," Jack says as we sit in the hallway during break.

Racetrack grins as he swallows a mouthful of sandwich. "What's it to ya, Kelly?"

"Well, how am I supposed to make fun of who you're makin' it with if I don't know who it is?"

"That's exactly my point."

Medda's assistant, Caroline, walks by, giving a secret little smile to Racetrack. Racetrack smiles back and she scurries off, giggling and blushing.

"Oh, my God, Race," I say, smacking my palm to my forehead.

Jack nearly chokes on his sandwich. "How many times?"

Race grins. "Twice. Well, two occasions, anyway. Once before casting and once after."

Dutchy shakes his head. "That's a bribe, Higgins."

"I like to think of it more as a 'please' and a 'thank you.'"

Jack reaches over and smacks him on the side of his head.

"Ow!" Racetrack rubs his head and pouts a little.

"I'm so telling your mother," Spot says with a smirk. Racetrack jumps up at tackles him.

God, there is _no_ way those two actually _enjoy _sex with girls.

* * *

Rehearsal ends around three, and I am fully exhausted. I don't really feel like dealing with my roommates, so I go to lounge around in Dutchy's room. Blink and Mush are hanging out on Mush's bunk above us, snickering about God knows what while I read over the script with Dutchy. He makes some snide remark and we start laughing, and that's when two heads appear, hanging down over the edge of the top bunk.

"You guys _looove_ each other," the curly-haired head says, "don't you?"

Dutchy rolls his eyes and I hit Mush on the nose with my rolled-up script.

"No, it's cute," Blink chimes in. "But Dutchy, are you aware that Specs doesn't have a vagina?"

"Hey, Blink, guess what?" Dutchy says.

"What?"

Dutchy grabs Blink's eye patch and pulls it back as far as he can and then lets go, causing it to snap back into Blink's face.

"_Owww!_" Blink yelps, grimacing. "That was just uncalled for!"

"So is your face, Blink."


	21. Havin' Some Fun

Neither Dutchy or I are hungry when Blink and Mush leave for dinner, so we hang around Dutchy's room for a while. It's kind of awkward being alone together now, which is weird, considering last night. Maybe it's one of those things where the adrenaline-and-hormone "oh my God he just asked me out" high has worn off. Or maybe we're just tired from our late night and early morning and utterly exhausting day. We lay in silence for a while, side by side and pondering the underside of Mush's bunk, and I'm wondering what he's thinking about.

Is this okay with him? Is he happy? What if me kissing him just made him _think_ he's gay?

What if, even if he had those mildly homosexual inklings, he was at one point _all the way_ straight? Like, has he had sex before? Will I end up deflowering him on all accounts?

Dutchy interrupts my train of thought by spontaneously rolling onto his side and kissing me. He's more sure of himself now; he doesn't even hesitate before touching my lips. I can't help but smile. When I do, he smiles back for a moment before nipping lightly at my lower lip. For a supposedly straight guy, he sure knows how to kiss. Ready and willing, I open my mouth.

It's heavier than last night was. A few minutes pass before I find myself tugging his T-shirt over his head. His skin is soft, offset by hard muscle, though you wouldn't know it just by looking at him. I barely have time to appreciate it before my pulls impatiently at my shirt.

Now, I'm no complete stranger to intimacy, I've had my moments, but this skin-on-skin feeling is like nothing I've ever experienced before. Dutchy amplifies it by rolling gently on top of me. He's warm, and he smells and tastes good. I'm becoming more and more aware of his hips digging into mine as he's kissing my neck – I'm not sure exactly what it is that he's doing, but it feels _incredible_.

I'm ready to take control when suddenly he springs off of me. My pants are vibrating and making a really irritating noise.

"Fuck," I mumble, frustrated, as I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. "Hello?"

"Danny," a cheery voice erupts from the speaker. "Hi, sweetie."

I try to catch my breath, exerted from both Dutchy and the shock of the sudden phone call. "Hi, Mom."

"Why are you breathing funny?"

"Oh, um... exercising." Dutchy smirks and falls back onto his pillow. "Did you need something?"

"Just to talk to my baby."

I roll my eyes. "Uh... I can't really--"

"Is anything exciting happening at school?" She interrupts me; I really should know by now not to try and get out of a phone call from my mom.

"Well, um, I got into the spring play."

"That's wonderful. What is it?"

"_Bye Bye Birdie_."

"How nice." Stereotypical New York Jew resonates in her voice, and I can almost hear her checking out her nails. "Are there any girls in the play?"

"Well, yeah." Good God. Here we go again.

"_Jewish_ girls?" I can actually feel her staring me down through the phone.

"Mom!" I smack my palm to my forehead. Dutchy lifts his eyes to me, looking bored and dissatisfied.

"Well, I just don't want you marrying some shmegdorf of a girl... you need someone from a nice, respectable family who shares your beliefs and values." Translation: someone exactly like her.

"I'm _sixteen_, Mom! Don't you think it's a little early to be thinking about marriage?" I sigh and run my hand over Dutchy's arm. I can see the look of shock on my mother's face right now. "Mom, I have to go, okay? Love you. Bye."

I hang up and set my phone on the desk. "I'm really sorry about that."

Dutchy smiles. "It's okay." He squeezes my shoulder. "You tell your mom you love her on the phone. That's sweet."

I shrug. "Well, you know." I lay back, turning my head towards him. "Kind of a mood-killer, huh?"

He nods. "A little, yeah."

"Sorry."

And it's back to the in-depth study of Mush's bunk. We do this for several minutes before I finally give in to the question that's burning on my tongue.

"Dutchy?"

"Yeah."

"Have you ever... um..." My mouth is suddenly very dry. I don't know why I'm so scared to ask him this. "Um. Are you... are you a virgin?"

He rolls onto his side, looking at me in confusion. "What?" He laughs. "Specs, why would you ask me that?"

"I was just wondering. It's kinda been bugging me."

"Well, do you mean with another guy, or with a girl?"

My eyes widen. I'm sure my face is about as white as the sheets we're laying on. "Um..."

Dutchy shakes his head. "I've never so much as even kissed another guy before you." I smile a little bit. And then I feel kind of dirty... but in a good way. "But as for girls... no, I'm not."

I blink. "Can I ask how many?"

He sighs. "Just one. One time."

"Did... did you like it?"

I have a feeling this game of Twenty Questions is getting on his nerves. "It was okay, I guess. I mean, I got off and everything, but I just didn't think it was all it's cracked up to be."

"Okay." I decide to drop it, though I'm dying to know who it was.

"What about you?" Dutchy asks after a few minutes of awkward silence.

"Huh?"

"Have you been with anybody?"

I'm caught completely off-guard, though I should've seen this coming a mile away. "Uh... well, kinda."

"Kinda?" He arches an eyebrow. He's so sexy, even when he's making fun of me.

"Well, I haven't had sex with anybody but I've done... other... _stuff_."

"Stuff," he repeats.

"Yeah." I really hope he doesn't make me elaborate.

"Well, have you ever _wanted_ to?"

I laugh. "Come on, Dutchy. Who hasn't? I bet nuns even get urges sometimes."

He smiles a little bit. "Do you want to... with me?"

I can feel myself blushing. This time it doesn't piss me off. I think the question is a little bit sweet. "Um, yes." I kiss his forehead. "Eventually. I want to give this a little time, though, you know?"

"Yeah," he says with a smile. "Me, too." And he kisses me.

I love when he kisses me.

Except when Blink and Mush butt in, which they have just demonstrated their ability to do so by walking in the door. Mush stops halfway into the room and giggles.

"Are we interrupting something?" He grins, and Blink peeks around him.

Dutchy sits up. "Um... hi, guys."

"Hi back," Blink snickers. "Having fun?"

"We were just... it's not..." He's so cute when he stutters.

"Uh huh," Mush grins. "I commonly lounge around half-naked in bed with my boyfriend, just for the hell of it."

"You do too, Mush, shut the hell up." Dutchy throws a pillow at him and I laugh.

"So there's a party tonight," Blink says when he is able to stop laughing at Mush. "It's supposed to be in Racetrack's room, but depending on how many people are there, it might move down to the courtyard." He leans against the bedpost. "You guys should come. And Specs, your roommates are wondering if you've moved out or something, considering you haven't been around for a good twenty-four hours or so."

I shrug. My roommates can suck it.

"You wanna go to the party, Specs?" Dutchy leans over and grabs his shirt from the floor, pulling it over his head.

"Um, yeah," I reply, following suit. "I suppose I should go get some clean clothes, though."

I walk into my room and Jack feigns a heart attack. David smacks him on the back of his head.

"So you didn't disappear of the face of the planet, huh?" Jack grins at me.

"Um, no?"

"You look like you've had some fun," Spot says from over by the closet.

"What do you mean?" I look at him, utterly confused. As far as I know, I look normal. Dutchy would've said something if I didn't.

David taps the side of his neck and then points to the mirror on the closet door. I walk over and look.

_There is a huge hickey on my neck_.

Holy. Shit. I slap my hand to my neck and turn back around, looking at my roommates in a panic. "How do I make it go away?"

Jack chuckles. He puts his arm around my shoulders and walks me to my bed. "Specs, my dear, naïve friend, we are not females. We cannot simply cover these things up." He grins and pushes me down onto the bed. "Now, normally I would simply tell you to wear it with pride. But, since you're new, and I like you, there are a few tricks I can teach you to make it go away faster. However, in order for me to relay those tips to you..." He trails off.

Spot finishes for him. "You're going to have to tell us who gave it to you."

"Um... I'll just go ask Race."


	22. Trouble Right Here in River City

"You marked me."

"I what?" Dutchy spins around from looking out Race's window, then takes a look at me and grins. "Oh. So I did. Wow, would ya look at that thing?" He laughs. "Sorry about that."

I laugh and roll my eyes. "You're proud of yourself, aren't you?"

He leans against the wall and takes a sip of his drink. "A little bit, yeah." I stick my tongue out at him, and then steal his cup and taste the liquid inside. No weird juice this time, just bitter-tasting, probably very cheap beer. I grimace and shove the drink back at him. He smirks. "What, no completely-loaded Specs tonight?"

"Not on that shit, no," I shake my head and look around for something, anything to get that taste out of my mouth. I settle for a handful of potato chips, not really caring if they're kosher or not.

"So, Specs," Racetrack materializes beside me and drapes an arm around my shoulders. It's really quite a feat, considering his height and apparent inebriation. "Who is it that gave you your little love-bite?" He grins and turns my head to examine my neck. His breath reeks of alcohol. "You are the talk of the town tonight."

I pull my chin from his hand and roll my eyes.

"Come on, Specs, who was it?"

"Your mother, Race."

Race makes an attempt to clock me in the jaw but ends up slapping me lamely in the chest. He wanders off at the call of Spot, who is across the room playing a game of quarters with a couple of girls.

"Nice one," Dutchy says, looking around our immediate area. "You're kinda hot when you're sarcastic."

It means a lot to me that he says this. It means he's attracted to me. This is good. I lean in to kiss him, but he puts his cup between us, taking a long, deliberate drink.

"What's wrong?" I ask when he lowers the cup.

"Not here, okay?"

I blink, my eyebrows drawing together. "Why?" I'm so confused. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, Specs, I... look, just not here, alright?"

I lean back against Race's bed, a little bit hurt and more than a little concerned. I look around to see Blink and Mush staring at us, shaking their heads. "I think... I think that I'm going to go back to my room now. I'm kind of tired."

"Specs, come on."

But I'm already out the door.

* * *

I'm curled up in bed with my pillow clamped over my ears to block out the noise from across the hall. I haven't even bothered with an attempt to sleep, but settled for lying in the dark and sulking. Stewing, if you will.

My door opens and I assume it's one of my piss-drunk roommates coming in to either harass me or pass out in bed. I feel pressure on my mattress, but am too busy pouting to find out what's going on.

My sudden bedmate lays down beside me, his chest pressed to my back, his arm snaking around my waist. I recognize him by his sweet, comforting scent before he even says anything.

"Don't be mad," he whispers, pulling the pillow away from me. I stay silent. "Come on, Specs." He nuzzles his head into my neck, and I try my hardest not to melt. "We talked about this. If people saw us, if they found out..."

"I know," I sigh, closing my eyes. I put my hand over his and squeeze, smiling a little to myself. "I know."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's okay, I guess."

"Thanks."

We stay like this for a while. It's so comfortable, so sweet, I lose track of time. We're both drifting off to sleep when the door swings open and the light flicks on.

"Huh," Jack says, standing in the flood of light. "Well, isn't this quite the image?"

Spot comes in, then snorts and walks back out. David walks in and takes his place.

"What the hell?"

Dutchy rolls over, heavy with sleep, blinks. "Oh... guys... I... we..."

David's eyes are burning. "What the fuck, Dutchy, you're supposed to be dating my sister. Or is she not enough for you?"

I sit up. "David, calm down."

He turns to me, glaring. "Don't you fucking tell me to calm down! You're in this too!"

Dutchy stands up, pushing past Jack and David. "I'm just gonna go. We'll talk about this tomorrow. I'll see you, Specs."

And he leaves me with two roommates who will never let me live this down, and one who will probably kill me in my sleep.


	23. A Bitchy Beatdown and Some Billy Joel

"Dutchy, you stupid son of a bitch!" I can hear Sarah yelling from the staircase. I'm headed down to ask Dutchy if he wants to go to breakfast with me, but I figure maybe I better stay here, hidden, until the storm rolls by. It's eight-thirty in the morning and he's getting a tongue-lashing from a Jewish girl. Poor guy.

"Sarah, come on--"

"Don't you fucking tell me to fucking come on!" Oh boy. She's dropping F-bombs. For a Jacobs, that must mean she's pretty peeved. "I thought we had something here! And you're off in bed with some other--" oh shit... we're found out! "--girl? What kind of a sleaze are you?" Phew.

"Look, Sarah..." Dutchy sounds so small and terrified. I want to rush down and sweep him off his feet and carry him back to bed with me, but a.) he's bigger than I am and I probably couldn't lift him, and b.) Sarah might set me on fire with her crazy-girl laser-vision.

"Damn it, Dutchy! What about that night last year?"

What night last year? What is she talking about?

"Sarah, that was just a party... I was drunk, you were drunk, it just... it didn't mean anything. It just sort of happened."

"It didn't just _sort of happen_! I let you... and you... _it meant something to me_!" I hear the stinging noise of a hand on a cheek. It sounds a little bit painful. Note to self: kiss it better later. "You know, I really thought that you and I had something. A connection. I thought maybe I really liked you. But you're just a stupid, horny boy!" She stays silent for a few seconds, and I can picture steam coming out of her ears. "Oh, you will regret this."

And I hear her stomping down the other staircase.

"We aren't even really _dating_!" Dutchy yells this after her, but it is of no use as the only response it gets is a feminine huff and more stomping.

I peek around the corner and the coast is clear, except for Dutchy standing, dumbfounded, outside his door.

"Dutch?"

He turns to me. His right cheek is a little red from Sarah, but otherwise he looks relieved to see me. "Hey, Specs."

"You okay?" I walk over to him, putting my hand on his shoulder.

He laughs a little and shakes his head. "Hell of a morning."

"Are you hungry? I was headed down to breakfast."

"Yeah. Um, lemme get dressed though." I was so busy worrying about his altercation with Sarah, I didn't even notice he was wearing nothing but a pair of Happy Bunny boxers. Yum.

"Do you have to?" I grin mischievously.

He laughs as he steps into his room, leaving the door open. "Well, if we're goin' out in public, yeah. Hate to spoil your fun, but life is unfair." He tugs on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and slips on some shoes. "Okay. Let's go."

* * *

We head down to breakfast, where we find Blink and Mush. "Well, if it ain't Ellen and Anne," Mush says with a grin. "You have fun with your little bitchy beatdown this morning, Dutchy?"

"Shut up, Mush," Dutchy says, flinging a bit of scrambled egg at him.

Blink pipes up, his mouth full of chewed-up bagel. "Boy, I've never seen Sarah that pissed before. What the hell did you do?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"'Course you don't. But man, I was glad me and Mush escaped when we did. I was afraid she'd come after me, once she killed you where you stood."

"I might do it for her if you don't quit talkin', Blink."

"Well, aren't we testy this morning?" Mush smirks, taking a drink of his orange juice. "Is it that time of the month again, Dutch?"

These guys just don't quit. They're actually kind of funny. So I sit back, eat my bagel, and enjoy watching my boyfriend get picked on.

"Mush, I hate you."

"You should probably love us, Dutchy," Blink chirps. "After all, we _are_ keeping your dirty little secret from being spread like wildfire. Although, Specs' neck is screaming stories all on its own."

I feel my cheeks heat up and put my hand on my neck. "Shut up, Blink." I through a piece of my bagel at him, cream cheese and all. It sticks to his cheek and provides the three of us who remain bagel-y unadorned with a laugh.

"Touche," Dutchy says, and finishes his eggs. "Specs, you done?"

"Yeah," I say, pushing away from the table. "You can have the rest of my bagel if you want, Blink."

Blink grumbles at me and gulps down some orange juice.

* * *

Dutchy and I are sitting on the floor of his room, attacking one another at MarioKart. Apparently bored with no sound effects but the violent banter between us over the video game, Dutchy switches on the radio. It's some classic-rock-modern-hits-adult-contemporary-what-the-fuck-ever station.

We sit and mindlessly absorb the music in silence as we play our game. But after a while, Dutchy starts humming along. It's a little annoying, but I smile and let him have his fun.

However, he takes it upon himself to start singing.

"Some people run from a possible fight..." I roll my eyes. He elbows me in the ribcage. "C'mon, Specs, you know the words."

I sigh. "Some people figure they can never win..."

"And although this is a fight I could lose..."

"The accused is an _innocent maaaan_!" Wow. Okay. Yeah, that was a little bit fun.

But then Dutchy breaks into an earsplitting falsetto. "I aaaam... an innocent man! OH YES, I AM! AN INNOCENT MAAAAN!"

He starts to go on with the song, but I throw down my controller and jump on him, knocking him flat on his back. Clamping my hand over his mouth, I shake my head. "Shhh. One can only handle so much Billy Joel."

Dutchy mumbles a muffled sentence into my hand, only succeeding in making my palm feel icky and wet. I remove it. "What?"

"I said you don't know what you're talking about." He grins. "Billy Joel is greater than _God_."

I roll my eyes. "You're ridiculous."

He just wrinkles his nose at me in a quiet laugh, then cranes his head up and looks at our position. "You know, last time we were like this, it did not end well."

"_Au contraire,_ my dear. It ended very well, just not that night."

"I love a man who knows Spanish."

I laugh and kiss him. For the first time since our relationship "officially" began, _I_ am initiating the kiss.

It goes on, as our kisses do. As all kisses _should_. As it deepens, Dutchy tries to roll over and take control, but I refuse to let him. It's my turn.

We continue longer and go farther than I would've expected. We've been going at it for a good half hour when we break for air. Dutchy's face is red and his hair is messed up, and he looks _so amazing_. I managed to wrestle his shirt off of him, as well as his shoes and his belt. He's much better at the clothing-removal game than I am, and has me down to my boxers. I'm impressed.

"You okay?" He's panting, and has my weight on his chest, probably can't breathe very well, and he's asking _me_ if _I'm_ okay. I _love _him.

"I'm fan-fucking-tastic, thanks." I grin and nip a little at his collarbone. He makes a small noise somewhere between a giggle and a moan, and it makes me _very_ happy. "And yourself?"

"Never been better, thanks." And he pulls me in for another kiss.

This goes on for a while before I finally get the guts to go for the gold and start unbuttoning his pants. As I'm sliding them down his hips, he pulls away. "Um... Specs?"

I blush. "Yeah."

"Are we still taking it slow?"

"I..." Sighing, I rest my forehead on his shoulder. "We should, yeah."

He puts his hand on the back of my neck, running it in a slow line down the length of my spine. "Um... I don't think I want to."

I lift my head, eyes wide. "What?"

"I want this."

I'm silent.

He speaks again. "Do you want this?"

Looking from his face down to the straining fabric of my boxers, I hang in indecision for a moment. "Are you _sure_?"

Dutchy looks me straight in the eye. "I'm sure."

* * *

Somewhere in the midst of our hormonal frenzy, we managed to make it into Dutchy's bed. We lay there now, exhausted, but completely satisfied, if I do say so myself. Dutchy is on his side, facing me and trying – mostly failing – to fight off sleep. He moves a little to find a more comfortable position, and winces.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs and nestles his head onto my shoulder. "It's worth it." And he drifts into a light sleep.

I pull the blanket up around his bare shoulders and smile a little. Then I start to think.

We full-on disregarded all the so-called bases and went straight from the dugout to home plate. (Yes, I'm gay and I know about baseball. _Shut up_.) I begin to wonder if that was a mistake. I mean, in theory, he could still be teetering on that line of confusion about his sexuality. And I could've just totally thrown him off-balance.

Will I be okay with that in the long run?

I sigh and look over at the clock. It's eleven o'clock. God knows where Blink and Mush are. I gently shake Dutchy's shoulder. "Dutch," I say, softly.

He grunts at me. "Specs, I'm tired."

I press my lips to his temple. "I know, but we need to get dressed. We don't know when Mush and Blink are gonna come back."

Dutchy grumbles but eventually clambers out of bed with my assistance. He takes his time getting dressed, which I guess I understand, while I watch. He must not feel good at all right now. At least in one sense.

I'm still wondering about so many things. There are a few questions I have left for him, but I don't think there will be any decent time to ask them.

I decide to quit worrying about it and just look at him. The tousled, shaggy blond hair, fair, European skin, bright blue eyes and that tall, toned body I've really learned to love in these past few days. He's so... well, despite my preference, I never thought another guy could be beautiful, but the word doesn't do Dutchy justice.

He notices me staring. "What?"

I shake my head. "Nothing."

"You're looking at me funny."

Laughing nervously, I shrug. "Sorry."

"What's on your mind?" He fastens his belt and sits painstakingly back down on his bed. "And don't tell me nothing. You're a bad liar."

I sigh. "Well..." I slump down onto the bed beside him, staring at my feet.

"Come on, out with it."

"Sarah's the girl, isn't she?"

Dutchy looks over at me. I try not to look at him, but I can still see him out of the corner of my eye. "Sarah's what girl?"

"_The_ girl. You know..." I swallow the huge rock in my throat. "Your first."

He sighs and falls back onto the mattress. "Yes. Okay? It was a mistake, a stupid, drunken mistake, and it's not going to happen again. Can we stop bringing this up now?"

"I'm sorry. Yeah. Sorry." I scrub my hands over my face, and then lay back beside him.

"Are you okay, other than freaking out about little things?"

"I'm fine. Just, you know, being a pansy-ass whiner."

He laughs. "Well, you're good at that." He takes my hand and holds it, just holds it, like we aren't just a couple of overly-hormonal teenagers.

Everything is good.


	24. Somebody's Gonna Get Kicked in the Balls

Sunday night finds me in Dutchy's room, again. We've spent the entire day together... not that I'm complaining. We're accompanied now by Blink and Mush, who are arguing about the choreography for _Bye Bye Birdie_. Medda made the mistake of making them assistant choreographers, in addition to their parts as the bartender and Harvey Johnson, respectively. I'm drawing a rather ridiculous comic of the two of them, and Dutchy is giggling over my shoulder as he observes.

"Mush, we don't have _room_ for the entire cast to do the damned Charleston."

"We do too! If everybody gives themselves enough space, and controls their kicks, and keep their legs to themselves..."

"Somebody's gonna get kicked in the balls, Mush."

"Yeah, and it's gonna start with you in about two seconds."

My comic ends with Blink ripping Mush's head off and eating it, though the real Blink and Mush continue to argue. Dutchy cracks up, but the two of them don't need to know about it. Unfortunately, our entertainment is cut short as Crutchy strolls in.

"Hiya, fellas." He drops his backpack onto his bed, and looks around. "Oh, hey, Specs. Wasn't expecting to see you here."

I grin and shrug. "Have fun with your folks?"

"Yeah. Hey, what happened to your neck?"

Blink and Mush erupt in laughter. I shoot them an icy glare.

"Specs was accosted by a vicious, man-eating vacuum cleaner," Mush says as he tries to stifle a giggle.

"A very unfortunate accident. It was horrific. He's lucky he got out alive, let alone with all his limbs." Blink snickers, and he and Mush fall together, laughing, forgetting all about their fight not two minutes ago.

"Uh... huh..." Crutchy arches an eyebrow, then shakes his head. He sits down on his bed, sighing happily as he pulls out his laptop. "So, how'd the first rehearsal go?"

"Not bad," Dutchy says, laying back on his pillow, "aside from having to get up at the very ass-crack of dawn to be berated by a crazy redhead."

"Well, that's Medda for ya."

"Hey, Crutchy, how come you're not in the play?" I look up at him, over the top of my sketchbook.

Crutchy looks at his crutch, leaning against the wall, and back at me. "Oh, it's just that I'm too good of a dancer to be seen with the likes of these yahoos," he says, raising his eyes to Blink and Mush. I laugh a little at their clueless stares. "Besides, I take care of most of the lighting and sound work."

"Crutchy is the self-proclaimed god of computers," Dutchy says.

"That fact is substantiated by several witnesses," Crutchy mutters as he tinkers with his laptop.

"Must be true, then," I say, shaking my head. I look at the clock, see it's quarter to ten. "Ugh. I need to be getting back to my room."

"Oh," Dutchy says, trying to mask the disappointment in his voice. "Well, uh, I'll walk you up to your room." We stand up and head for the door.

"Dutchy, you're walkin' kinda funny. You okay?" Crutchy is looking at us from over the top of his computer.

"Huh?" Dutchy stalls for time as he comes up with an excuse. It's kind of cute, the way I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. "Oh, um, I kinda hurt myself at rehearsal yesterday."

"Jeeze, what the hell did Medda make you guys do?"

Blink starts to snicker, but Mush elbows him. I know they've figured it out by now, they had to have. At least they aren't saying anything. Under the jokes and the insanity, they're pretty okay guys.

"Later, guys," I say, and Dutchy and I leave.

* * *

Dutchy takes me up the back staircase, in order to keep us from being seen.

"Sorry you're still sore."

He shakes his head and smiles a little. "It's totally worth it."

I bite my lip, and smirk. "Better than girls?"

Dutchy laughs. "Definitely." And he stops me, halfway between his floor and mine, and kisses me. His kiss his hot and sweet, ongoing as he pushes me up against the wall. He pulls away after a couple minutes, panting. "Um... I'll see you in the morning."

I laugh, shaking my head to clear it. "Yeah. Goodnight," I say, leaning in for one more kiss.

"Oh... Specs?" Dutchy pushes his hair out of his face, blinking. "Thanks for today."

"You're welcome," I say with a smile. "And thank you, too."

I walk into my room still smiling like a fool. Jack smirks at me as I come in, and David glares at me like he's plotting how to kill me and make it look like a suicide. I shrug off David's laser vision and get stuff to go take a shower.

Heading down the hall to the bathroom, I laugh to myself.

Today has been amazing.

* * *

Morning comes far too soon and really kicks my ass. The weekend must've worn me out more than I realized. I drag myself to breakfast, where I sit and stare at my food and mumble greetings to people as they come and sit down. I'm so entirely exhausted that I don't even realize that Dutchy doesn't come down until about twenty minutes after I do.

I find myself suddenly awake when he sits down next to me and casually rests his hand on my thigh under the table. "Morning," he says cheerfully.

I smile at him. "Morning," I say back. This boy is better than coffee.

"Sorry I'm late. Slept in." He shrugs and steals a piece of my toast. "Hey, I wanted to remind you that we have rehearsal this afternoon, right after seventh ends."

"Yeah, I know."

"You ready for class?"

I sigh and finish what's left of my coffee. "Yeah."

He squeezes my thigh lightly before he gets up. It's quite possibly the most intimate thing I've ever experienced.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter is short and sweet because I wanted something to cheer me up. I just wanted to let everyone know that I start college tomorrow and will not have a ton of time for updates. Yes, I will still update, but you will be lucky if I post one chapter a week. I won't forget you guys, I promise. I'm just going to be really busy. Bear with me, okay? -Layne**


	25. Look Who's Talking

The day trudges by as all Mondays seem to do. I drag myself out of seventh period, struggling to keep myself from running headfirst into a wall. Now I have to go to rehearsal, and I am not happy about it.

I shuffle down the hallway glumly, watching my feet. I am so not in the mood for singing and dancing and generally making a mockery of myself. What did I get myself into?

Suddenly, an arm is wrapped around my shoulders. "Hey, grumpy-pants." I don't even have to look up. "How come you're so down?"

"Don't wanna go to rehearsal," I grumble, still staring at the ground.

"Aw, come on." The arm squeezes me a little. "_Grey skies are gonna clear up_..."

"Dutch, you continue singing that fucking song and I will put my fist in your happy face."

He laughs and steers me toward the drama room.

* * *

"Oh, good," Medda says with a grin, clapping her hands in front of her chest as Dutchy and I walk in. "Our two romances are complete!"

Dutchy and I look at each other, eyes wide. We look back at Medda. Are we figured out?

"Alright. Now that everyone is here, we'll get to work. We have a lot to accomplish today, and I don't want to waste a second. Everyone, please go pick up your songbooks from the front table, and then I want all the teenagers in one group over here and all the adults in another over there." Medda points to two different corners. "Hugo," she says, pointing to me. "You will be working on 'Lot of Livin' to Do' with the rest of the teenagers, since you'll be in it for the finale and I've got nothing else for you to really do right now. And my dear Albert, you will be practicing 'Happy Face' by yourself." Dutchy grins at me and I roll my eyes.

I go up and grab a songbook and go and stand in the corner (that makes it sound like I've been a bad little boy...). While I wait for everyone to come over, I flip through my songbook. I have minimal singing. This pleases me. And it will probably please everyone else in the audience, cast, and crew as well.

Okay, so I figure this play will be fun, but if you've never seen _Bye Bye Birdie_, you are lucky. "The Telephone Hour" is the most obnoxious fucking song I've ever heard. And it gets stuck in your head for years at a time.

And I get to listen to it every day for the next three months! Lucky me.

Kids gather around me and start looking at the music for "Lot of Livin' to Do." Some are singing quietly to themselves, some are humming, and some are just staring and mouthing the words as they play the music in their heads.

"So do you all want the CD or the piano to practice?" Medda walks over to us, holding a CD in one hand and with Caroline, the Robin to Medda's Batman (minus the tights on both parts), who is carrying sheet music.

"I think we'll all do much better with the piano," this girl, whose actual name I can't remember but I know she plays Alice, looks around the group, nodding. "Easier to pick out individual parts that way, you know."

Medda nods and leaves us with Caroline, who promptly sits down and gets us working on vocal warm-ups. For a junior, Caroline's kind of a Nazi when it comes to drama. She stops playing the piano if she hears anything wrong, and glares until someone squeaks an apology. Uh, yeah, she's a little crazy.

We finally get into the song and it's not so bad. Everybody seems to really know what they're doing, and they're all really good singers, and loud, so they kind of drown me out and no one has to really hear me.

I guess rehearsal isn't so bad after all.

* * *

"How're we going to block the Ice House?" Mush and Blink are back to this again. They're little more than just background noise to me right now while I'm reading my English textbook on Dutchy's bed, taking notes.

"I was thinking we'd put everyone into a big group in the middle of the stage, like, two or three lines of people and just have them dance." Blink says, a proud smile evident in his voice.

"Are you retarded?" Mush replies. "First off, they won't all fit in the middle of the stage, and secondly, if they're all facing one direction, then only the people in the center of the audience would see their faces."

"I'm not retarded," Blink says, pouting.

"For Christ's sake, you're _both_ retarded!" Dutchy spurts out. "I'm so tired of hearing you two argue about damned _dancing_! Either shut up or leave!"

I look up, and Blink and Mush are just staring at him, dumbfounded. Then, scowling, they get up and leave. "Douchebag," I hear Blink mumble as he closes the door. I laugh and go back to my note-taking.

Dutchy goes back to cleaning his camera for a couple minutes, then sets it aside and lays down with his head in my lap and thus in my textbook. "Can I help you?"

"Bored," he says, smiling up at me. "You've gotta be, too."

"Well, yeah," I shrug. "But I have homework. Which I _have_ to do."

He stays there, pouting. It's pretty much the cutest thing ever. "Dutchy," I say softly, "in case you didn't catch it, that was a hint that I want you to sit up."

"No, I caught it, I just chose to ignore it," he says with a mischievous grin. "Come _on_, you can take a break. Wanna do somethin'?"

I sigh. "Like what?"

"Um..." He bites his lip, thinking for a moment. "Wanna go run around the city for a while?"

"School night. Plus it's already seven o'clock. We'd never make it back before curfew."

"Ice cream?"

"Not hungry."

"Wanna make out?"

"That's not fair."

"Wanna watch _Chicago_?"

"Um, not particularly."

He sits up. "Make out it is, then." And he pushes my textbook aside and tackles me.

* * *

I walk into my room, still rolling my eyes, but entirely satisfied. The home-plate thing happened again. I'm really hoping I get to make regular at-bat appearances.

Anyway, enough of the baseball references.

So I walk in, and Racetrack's in my room, but no one else. I have no idea where everybody is, and I look around before looking at Race in confusion.

Well, you'd be confused, too, if your friend was randomly in your room with no shirt and his hair messed up.

"Um... Race?"

He turns around, startled at first, then laughs. "Hey, Specs. What's up?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Huh?"

"Oh, nothing," I shake my head. "I commonly stand around half-naked in other peoples' rooms. I just forgot for a second that it's perfectly normal."

"Y'know, Specs, I bet you do," Race says, pulling his shirt over his head. I cock an eyebrow at him and he smirks. "You smell like sex, pal."

I laugh a little, kind of nervously, and kind of because it's funny. "Look who's talking, Race."


	26. It Doesn't Just Stand for Billy Joel

"Um," Racetrack says, running a hand through his tangled, matted hair. "Look, Specs, I'd appreciate it if you'd, y'know, kinda keep this on the down-low. It's, uh..." He sighs and looks down at the floor. "Well, this has never happened before."

I smirk, nodding. "Well, I won't tell anybody. But you gotta tell me who it is." Okay, I know exactly who it is. But I'd really get a kick out of hearing him actually say it.

Racetrack stutters, obviously looking for a way to get past me and run far, far away.

Then the door opens and Spot walks in. "So, Race, I was thinking--" He looks at me, eyes wide. "Oh, um, hey, Specs..." His face is starting to turn red. My God, Spot Conlon, _the_ Spot Conlon, is actually blushing.

"Hel-_lo_, Spot," I say with a grin. I look from Spot to Racetrack, who are both averting their eyes, sweating a little, their faces that deep red of embarrassment and shame.

They stand in silence for a while, shuffling their feet. After a few minutes, Spot clears his throat. "Um, Specs, you... you can't tell anyone. See, this is, um... it's..."

"The first time," I say. "I know. It's cool. My lips are sealed. Won't breathe a word to anybody."

Spot smiles a little bit. "Thanks, Specs. You know, you're a pretty alright guy."

I grin. "Don't worry, Spot. I won't tell anyone you said that, either." Laughing, I grab a towel and my shower stuff and head for the bathroom.

* * *

Tuesdays are so much better than Mondays. You don't have that psychological hangover from the weekend, or that Monday feeling of dragging along at a snail's pace. It's one day, one step closer to the weekend.

This particular Tuesday is much better than any regular old Tuesday. I have a really great secret that I have to keep but will probably tell Dutchy anyway, I got the highest grade in the class on the art project I turned in last week, my mom called during lunch and _didn't_ ask if I'd found any nice, Jewish girls, and this Tuesday means Dance Rehearsal Day.

Now, I can't dance to save my life and I hate this musical, so you wouldn't expect me to get excited about Dance Rehearsal Day. But you don't know what Dance Rehearsal Day holds. See, not only do I get to make a complete as of myself, and show everyone in the cast just how white I really am, but I get to see Dutchy in shorts and a black wifebeater getting all hot and sweaty and out of breath.

God, I _love_ Tuesdays.

"You're smiling." Dutchy walks up to me after rehearsal ends, wiping his face off with a towel. "You never smile after rehearsal."

I grin. "You're all sweaty," I say, "and your clothes are sticking to you. What's not to smile about?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "Perv."

"Well, what can I say?" I laugh as he punches me in the shoulder.

"Hey," Jack says as he jogs up to us. "Me and the boys are headin' into town for pizza, you guys wanna come?"

"Nah," I say, shrugging. "I got some homework I really gotta get done for art class. Thanks, though."

Jack nods. "What about you, Dutch-boy?"

Dutchy grins. "No, I think I'll stick around, bug Specs while he's trying to draw."

"It's his favorite pastime," I say.

Dutchy laughs a little. "Plus I gotta take a shower. I'm pretty gross right now."

Jack shrugs. "You're always gross. But, okay, we'll see ya whenever we get back, Specs. And Dutchy, if I don't see you tonight, then I'll see you at breakfast." We nod and Jack heads back to where everyone else is.

"Okay, well, I'm heading back to my room." I grab my bag and look at Dutchy. "Are you coming with me, or are you heading off to do something else?"

"Hmm," Dutchy taps his chin. "Spend all evening harassing you, or go back to my room and listen to Crutchy mumble at his computer... Gee, tough decision."

I jerk my head towards the door.

* * *

"So how come your face – I mean, Hugo's face, how come it's all shadowy and stuff?"

This is the eight-millionth question he's asked about what I'm drawing. I adore him, but this is getting a little tedious.

I roll my eyes and adjust my glasses on my nose. "Because even though Kim and Hugo got pinned, Hugo gets pushed into the background when Conrad Birdie comes into town."

"Oh." He cocks his head to the side. "You know, you are _so _much better-looking than that."

I laugh. "Thanks. But this isn't exactly a self-portrait."

My assignment for art class was to design an advertisement for something. So I decided just to make a flier for _Bye Bye Birdie_, since I promised Medda I'd do so anyway. I might as well get something out of the deal.

I start drawing a caricature of Medda in the corner, both to amuse myself and to have something to accompany the "Directed By" line. Dutchy laughs.

"Medda's hair isn't _that_ big," he says, snickering.

"Maybe not to her," I say with a smirk.

"She's going to kill her."

"I'm willing to take that risk... you know, for my art and all."

He laughs again and leans his head on my shoulder. I kiss his forehead and start shading. After a few minutes of watching me, he sighs. "You done yet?"

I grin and set my sketchbook on the desk. "For now, yeah," I say, smiling. "Bored?"

He nods. "Out of my skull."

Smiling, I tilt his chin up and kiss him.

I've said before how much I enjoy initiating kissing. Not only do I get to be in control, but Dutchy gets all soft and sweet when I start things – almost tentative, like he isn't quite sure of what to do. It's the sweetest feeling in the world when his lips give way to mine and he slowly wraps his arms around me – God, I want to bottle it up and keep it on my desk next to my bed for when he's not around.

He sighs a little and lays back, pulling me with him. I smile against his lips and he smiles back as he slides his hands under the back of my shirt. I love the way his skin feels against mine. It feels so... _natural_. How anyone could think this is wrong is beyond me.

Things slide along as they usually do, and before I know it, his shirt has been cast aside and I'm tugging at the waistband of his shorts. Dutchy turns his face to the side and I figure he needs to breathe, so I start kissing his neck.

"Specs," he says, panting a little.

"Hmm," I grunt, nipping gently at his collarbone.

He clears his throat. "Can... can we not?"

I lift my head up. "Can we not what?"

"Y'know..."

I blink, my eyebrows knitting together. "Is everything okay?"

He's blushing. "Yeah. I mean, I want to... like, I _really _want to..." He trails off.

"So what's the problem?" I brush his hair off of his forehead, looking into his eyes, searching for a clue.

Dutchy looks off to the side, embarrassed. "Um... I'm, uh... kinda sore." He bites his lip and looks up at me.

I laugh a little and kiss his forehead. "Okay. Don't worry about it." I go back to kissing his neck and shoulders. "Tell you what." I kiss down his chest, rest my chin just above his belly button. "You just lay back and relax, and I'll take care of you, okay?"

He lifts his head up to meet my eyes. Nodding, he lets his head fall back to the pillow. "Okay."

* * *

Dutchy falls back against the bed, panting. "Wow," he breathes, rubbing his hands over his face.

I laugh a little as I crawl up next to him, laying my head on his chest. "Good?"

He grins, beginning to catch his breath. "Yeah." He wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Fuck, no. Not good. Amazing." We laugh and he squeezes my shoulders. "Thanks."

I wrap an arm around his waist. "Don't thank me."

This is when I realize there's more going on than a stir in my pants and some uncontrollable urges between two overly hormonal sixteen-year-old boys. There's really something going on here. I don't quite know what to call it. I think about that weird, jumpy, fluttery feeling I get in my stomach whenever I think about him. And that flippy thing in my chest when he looks at me... that way that I just completely melt whenever he kisses me.

I don't know what it is. But it's nice. I like it.

Even if it is just a little bit on the frightening side.

"What're you thinking about?" His fingers are tracing little circles around on my shoulders.

I grin, nuzzling a little against his chest. "Nothing, really." I look up at him. "What about you?"

He laughs. "Can't think right now. Ask me later."

Chuckling, I nod. "Sounds like a plan."

We lay like this for a while, silent and content to be so. I play with that little trail of hair coming from his navel and disappearing into his shorts. I love that it's just a couple shades darker than the hair on his head and just as soft. It's my favorite thing on his body.

...Well, second favorite, anyway.

He turns to his side, crooking and elbow and propping his head in his hand. "So," he says with a smile, "what do you feel like doing?"

I sit up. "Well..." I look over at the clock. "You hungry?"

* * *

We plop our trays down on a table in the cafeteria and sit down.

"So what do you think of the play so far?" Dutchy asks me, shoving a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.

"Well, aside from the singing, and the dancing, and the rehearsals, the prospect of having to kiss a girl, Medda constantly barking orders, and eventually having to do this in front of a large group of people, it's okay." I take a bite of my garlic bread. "Are rehearsals always as tedious as they have been?"

He laughs a little. "Unfortunately, yes." Dutchy grins as my face falls. "But don't worry. Now that we've got the ball rolling, the weeks are just gonna fly by. We'll be on-stage before you know what hit you."

I shrug, and before I can say anything, Racetrack pops up beside me.

"Hey, Specs," he says with a grin.

"Um, hi, Race," I look at him quizzically and take a drink of my water. "Can I help you with something?"

"Well, yeah, actually." He leans on the table. "See, I was wondering if you got the math homework done." He smiles and nods at Dutchy, who only raises an eyebrow.

"No, not yet. Well, most of it's done, but I'm stuck on the last section."

Racetrack nods. "Oh. Well, I'm stuck on the first section but I got the rest of it done. I was thinking maybe we could help each other out?"

I blink. "Uh, sure?"

He smiles. "Great. Well, uh, just find me after you're done with dinner or something, okay?" And Racetrack wanders off.

"Weird," I say, shaking my head.

"What was that all about?" Dutchy drinks some water and looks at me, that eyebrow still cocked. "You seeing him behind my back?"

I laugh. "I don't know what was goin' on there. That was bizarre."

"No kiddin'. Racetrack is never all buddy-buddy with _anyone_ like that. Not even Jack."

I sit back and think for a moment. "Oh, you know what? I know what it is."

Dutchy takes a bite of his garlic bread. "And what's that?"

"I caught him with Spot last night."

He chokes on his bread. "_What_? What were they _doing_?"

"Well, they weren't doing anything when I walked in. Spot was in the bathroom, but Race was in my room, and he was half-naked and his hair was all messy."

"Oh, my God." Dutchy sits back and grins. "Oh, this is _rich_. So what happened?"

I laugh. "Well, Race is all stuttering and trying to come up with a cover story, and Spot walks in." I stop and listen to him laugh for a moment, notice perhaps a little too well when my heart does that weird flippy thing. I figure it's best just to keep talking. "So the two of them stand there telling me how it's never happened before and all that and how I can't tell anybody. I guess it's not that big of a deal seeing as pretty much everyone at this school bats for the opposing team, but those two make such a big to-do about how the ladies love them."

Dutchy smirks, shaking his head. "I'm not really surprised. Those two have been skirting around each other since their first day here. It's about time they admitted they wanted in each other's pants." He laughs and polishes off his spaghetti. "But I guess they did more than admit it, huh?"

I laugh. "I guess so." I shake my head and my eyes meet his. "Look, Dutch, I promised them I wouldn't tell anybody, so in all technicality, you don't know, and you can't tell anyone either, okay?"

He smiles. "You can trust me, Specs. I won't tell anybody. Secrets are safe with me."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."


	27. Smile

Wednesday is boring. I have no interesting goings-on in any of my classes and rehearsal is music. I don't really have any songs with Dutchy so I don't even get to see him after warm-ups. Rehearsal drags by with nothing to entertain me (except for Jack's occasional monkey shines) and nothing pretty (a.k.a. Dutchy) to look at, so I just stare off into space and pretend to be devoted to listening to people sing about goin' steady, steady for good.

Finally, it ends, and Dutchy walks in. He grins at me and sticks his songbook into his backpack as he walks over to me. "Hey," he says, that easy smile glinting in his perfect blue eyes. Good Lord, I could stare at... "I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come over tonight." He totally interrupted my train of thought, but I guess that's okay.

"Well, sure, but what's in it for me?" I grin back at him.

"Oh, I've got an exciting night planned, jam-packed with homework and poking fun at Blink and Mush and you helping me pick out my entries for the photo competition." He pushes his hair out of his eyes, smirking. "And perhaps, should the mood strike us, a rousing game of Go Fish."

Laughing, I nod. "I'm in. But I'll have you know, I'm a hell of a hand at Go Fish."

His chuckle is abruptly stopped by a cold glare. Those pretty blue eyes are fixed on a girl crossing the room, headed for where we're standing. Her name is Becky, and she plays Kim.

"What's wrong, Dutch?"

Dutchy rolls his eyes. "Becky Mason is headed over here."

"Yeah, so?" I fail to see why this is such a buzzkill.

"She's Sarah's best friend."

I nod and cock and eyebrow, and Becky approaches me, smiling coyly. "Hi, Daniel," she coos.

"His name's Specs," Dutchy interjects, setting his jaw.

Becky slides irritated eyes toward Dutchy. "Thank you, _Johannes_." Then she looks back at me, that weird, girlie smile on her face again. "So, Daniel – do you mind if I call you Daniel? Nicknames are so immature. Anyway, as I was saying..." She hasn't even said anything yet. What the hell? "I couldn't help but notice you were looking at me during rehearsal."

I scratch my head. "Um, well, see, Becky, I wasn't--"

She laughs. "It's okay, Daniel. Anyway, I hope you don't think me forward or anything because I don't usually do this – I mean, I usually let the guy make the first move but you're still fairly new here and don't seem to know a whole lot of people yet, you don't know how things work around here..." God, this girl rambles a lot. "Well, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to, um... maybe run lines with me sometime?"

My jaw drops. "Run lines with you?" _What_?

"You know, rehearse our scenes, help each other memorize our lines?" She's blushing a little bit.

"Well, Becky, we don't really interact all that much in the play... Wouldn't you be better off running lines with Jack or something?"

"But you're my _boyfriend_."

I blink. "Um, in the play..."

She giggles. "Well, yeah, that's what I meant. In the play. Anyway, what do you say? How's, say, Friday night for you?"

"Becky, I..."

"Friday night it is, then. Um, we can meet in my room, I guess, seeing as my roommates are going out, and nobody will bother us. Eight o'clock?"

I can't even speak. I figure I'm either dead or having a really bizarre nightmare.

"Great." She leans in and kisses my cheek, blushing. "See you Friday... Daniel." And she runs back to her girlfriends, giggling.

I stand there, my mouth hanging open, completely dumbfounded. Dutchy, being the sweetheart that he is, doubles over laughing. When I'm able to speak again, I turn to him. "Shut up, _Johannes_."

He makes an attempt to look angry and straightens himself. Ruffling my hair, he suppresses another chuckle. "Come on, Casanova, let's get outta here."

I punch him lightly in the arm and head out.

* * *

Up in his room, I'm looking through his photo prints and they really are amazing. Dutchy is an incredible photographer. Not a single photo is out of focus, never dust on the lens, never a single flaw. I don't know how he manages this kind of perfection. None of the photographs looks staged or fake, everything looks so happenstance and natural. I guess there really is an art to photography; it's not just point-and-shoot.

"How do you do this?" I hold up a particularly impressive picture of Crutchy, obviously taken unwittingly, with his eyes squinted at the monitor of his computer and his tongue pressed between his lips in determination.

"Do what?" Dutchy looks up, examines the picture, smiles.

"Make it look so easy." I turn the photo back to myself, study it again, set it down.

He shrugs. "I guess it is easy. I just keep an eye out all the time. I see something I like, I take a picture of it."

"But it never looks set up, it never looks like any old photograph."

"That's because it never is."

At this point I hit him with a pillow. "That's the cheesiest thing I've ever heard."

"You're just jealous," he says, laughing as he dodges another whack with the pillow. After a couple minutes of laughing, he sighs. "But seriously, what should I submit?"

I shrug. "They're all really good, Dutch." I look over the other pictures spread out on his bed. "Are you looking to do a theme?"

"Well, we're supposed to submit a bunch of related photos, and everybody always does a friends theme." He leans back against the wall and shrugs. "I mean, I kinda want to do something like that but I don't want just a bunch of candid shots of my friends. That's boring. They aren't connected."

"What about, like, relationships?"

He looks at me, eyebrows together in thought. "What do you mean?"

"Um... you could photograph people in relationships. I mean, like, romance. You could take pictures of couples, like boys and girls talking, and even like Jack and David and Mush and Blink and stuff. Make a statement."

He nods. "That's actually a really good idea." Smiling, he grabs his camera. "Hey, come here." I scoot over to him and he puts his arm around me.

"What?" I ask, looking up at him.

"Smile," he says, and clicks the shutter.


	28. Girls Have Cooties

Thursday flies by without a hitch and without anything interesting happening. There was a quiz in math, and a boring rehearsal, but then Dutchy was busy afterward so I had to just go back to my room and sleep.

And now it's Friday. I am dreading today. I don't have rehearsal, but I do have to go break the heart of some poor girl who currently has images of a multi-million-dollar wedding and 2.5 kids and a white picket fence dancing in her head.

I don't really want to shoot her down. But I also really don't want to go.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do when I get there.

Because she's a girl.

And girls are gross.

I trudge down her hallway at seven-fifty-eight, then stand outside Becky's door for a moment, trying to figure out a last-ditch excuse to run away and hide. Just as I'm gathering up the courage to turn and run, the door opens and Becky's face meets mine, bright and shiny and smiling.

"Daniel!" She chirps, throwing her arms around me. "I didn't think you'd make it!"

I shrug and nod, try to look anywhere but at her eyes. She pulls me into the room and I stand there awkwardly and twist my script in my hands. "So," I say, still fidgeting with the script and looking around the room. It's so... _girlie_.

"So," Becky repeats, giggling. She brushes her dark-blond hair out of her face and smiles at me, looking me up and down. "I like your shirt."

"Thanks." It's a plain white tee shirt. There's nothing special about it. "So, um, you wanna start?"

She grins. "Yeah."

And a five-foot, two-inch, dirty-blond tornado hits me with a force I didn't think physically possible, knocking me back onto one of the bunks. The wind is knocked out of me and I'm overtaken by shock so I don't know if I'm thinking clearly, but I'm pretty sure there's a girl on top of me and she is currently trying to perform a tonsillectomy on me with her tongue.

I'm pinned down and just kind of lay there, stunned, for a few moments. There's a brief flash of pain as she grins against me and that's when I turn my head to the side. "Um, Becky?"

She giggles and nuzzles into my neck. "Sorry... too much for you?"

I sigh. "Yeah. Way too much."

Becky laughs and shakes her head. "Well, gosh, what kind of a prude are you?" When I just cock an eyebrow, she looks at me and smiles. "What's wrong?"

"Well, I thought I was here to run lines."

Apparently, this is hilarious. She throws her head back and laughs. "You honestly thought that?" She shakes her head. "You're silly, Daniel."

Okay, I haven't had anyone call me silly since I was about four. This is ridiculous.

"But seriously, what's wrong?" She looks at me all innocently, smiling, like she wants to fix my problem.

"Um, I... well, see, Becky, I'm... um, I'm kind of seeing somebody."

Her face falls, that bright and shiny happiness being overcome by a really annoying pout. "What, like back home?"

"Um... sure."

Becky shrugs and leans down. "She doesn't have to know. It's not like we're going to get caught." And her mouth is on mine, working too hard yet again.

I pull away. "Becky, I'd rather... y'know, I'd rather not run the risk." Gently, I push her off of me and stand up. "Um... I'm just gonna go. I'll, uh... see you at the next rehearsal." I pick my script up off the floor and am out of there like a bat outta hell.

* * *

Dutchy opens the door when I knock, and he gives me a cocky grin. "So, how'd your date go? You get lucky?"

I shake my head and push past him, crawling into his bed.

He laughs. "What's wrong?" He lays down beside me, cupping my chin in his hand. "Rubber break or something?"

I roll my eyes and pull the covers over my head. "Girls have cooties."


	29. Crash

Dutchy was right. Everything did just fly by. Days melted into weeks and weeks into months and I don't know where it all went.

The past several weeks have been a blur... It's all consisted of Becky not talking to me and acting like we've gotten a divorce or something (though I have no idea what the hell is going on there...), David _finally_ forgiving me, Spot and Race still sneaking around behind everybody's backs (except for mine, of course), Blink and Mush very nearly putting one another in the hospital from fights over the choreography, and things with Dutchy escalating to an intensity I never thought possible.

And now here we are, opening night, intermission. Being on stage isn't quite so bad. I don't have to sing so much and I never have to dance by myself. It's actually pretty fun. My nerves have exploded into a kind of excitement. I think I might actually like this.

Dutchy and I are sitting backstage rather than in the green room, waiting out the half-hour in the quiet darkness. We're wedged between a couple of old sets, I believe from _West Side Story_ and _The Music Man_. I lean my head back against a billiards table, amazed that Dutchy hasn't told me that we've got trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool.

"So you're having fun?" Dutchy pats my knee, smiling, which I can just barely see in the dim lighting.

"Yeah... it's funny, I didn't think I would." I smile back. "It's actually kind of a rush."

He nods. "Yeah."

And we sit in silence for another minute or so.

"Is everything okay?" I turn my head towards him, trying to read his face, which is nearly impossible with all the shadow.

"Um..." Dutchy slides his hand up, closing it over mine. "Yeah, everything's fine. It's just that... can I tell you something?"

I squeeze his hand. "Of course."

He takes a deep breath and squeezes my hand back. "I..." He stops to clear his throat. I've never seen him this nervous. He always seems so cool and collected. "I think... well, really, I _know_, I love you."

My jaw drops and my hand goes slack. I stare at him through the darkness for several moments before I have the capacity to speak again. "Dutchy..."

He lets go of my hand and smooths his slicked-back, Albert-Peterson hair down. "Sorry."

"No, don't apologize." I run my hand up his arm, touch his cheek. "I love you, too."

He leans in and kisses me, warm and soft, and for once there isn't that fevered, sexual heat... it's all tender. I very nearly melt into his lap.

My tongue meets his and we cradle each other a while, kissing. I slide a hand to the back of his neck and rub a little, leaning into him. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and holds me, tight, close, and it feels _amazing_.

We don't even hear the door open.

"You fucking faggots," a voice spits. We break apart and look up, our eyes adjusting to the sudden light, finally recognizing the form of Oscar Delancey, stagehand extraordinaire. "I always knew you were a fairy, Visser."

His brother, Morris, pops up behind him. "Well, hey, fellas. When's the wedding?" The smile on his face is nowhere near friendly. Vicious, sickening, and entirely unkind, he laughs.

Dutchy and I scoot apart, the both of us completely speechless. Oscar clicks his tongue. "What's Daddy gonna think, Visser? What's he gonna say when he finds out that all that money he spends on your education here is being used so you can go at it with some queer?"

The Delanceys laugh uproariously, shaking their heads. "We got dirt on you now, pal," Morris says with a smirk. "You won't be such a damn golden boy anymore."

They walk away and we sit, stunned... I think I might actually hear Dutchy crying.

* * *

Though we were able to put up a couple of rather impressive facades for the second act, we were both seriously disturbed after the play. I walk Dutchy back to his room, silent the whole way. We stand outside his room, shuffling our feet awkwardly.

"You okay?" I look up at him, those usually happy blue eyes a little clouded.

He shrugs. "Other than the fact that I'm completely fucked up, down, and sideways, yeah, I'm peachy."

"Dutchy, everything's going to be okay." I reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing lightly. "We're going to be fine."

"How can you say that?" He pushes my hand away, shaking his head. "Specs, the Delanceys _hate_ me. They have since day one. They'll do anything to trip me up." He runs a hand over his still-gelled-down hair in frustration. "I told you what would happen if my dad finds out. I'll be outta here in no time flat."

"I really doubt that." My hand hovers awkwardly at my side, and I'm more than a little angry that he doesn't even want me to touch him.

"You don't _know_ my father, Specs! He's this right-wing, super-Christian, gun-toting, fag-hating son of a bitch. He finds out, I'm going home and then my sorry ass is on its way to boot camp for the rest of my life. This isn't okay, Specs. It's _not_ going to be okay."

I sigh and shake my head. "I'm sorry, Dutchy."

"Don't be fucking sorry!" He kicks at the wall, looking about ready to tear his hair out.

"Look, don't take this out on me. This isn't my fault," I snap, but immediately regret it. When he only stares at the floor, I put my hands on either side of his face and make him look at me. "This isn't your fault, either. This is just Oscar and Morris being assholes. I bet it'll all just blow over."

He looks like he's going to cry and his body is starting to droop. "What if it doesn't?"

"Well, your dad's going to have to accept you at some point. Things might get bad, I can't say that they won't, but I'll be here for you, okay?"

Dutchy nods, sighing and dropping his head on my shoulder. I just want to hold him and make him forget everything. "Specs, I am so fucked."

I don't know what to say. I rub my hand over his back and sigh, standing in silence a moment. "Look," I say at length, "let's just get some rest. It's been a busy night, and we're both more than a little exhausted. We need to sleep, and we'll see how things are in the morning."

He straightens, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I think I need to be alone tonight, Specs."


	30. Meaning It

School on Friday is awkward and strange. It's so quiet in English. Everything seems so perfectly in-place except that Oscar keeps turning around in his seat and smirking at us. The fifth or sixth time he does it, I look over at Dutchy, who sits staring blankly at his textbook.

I rip a piece of paper out of my notebook. **_Are you okay?_** I slide it over to him.

Moments later, it slides back. **_Better than yesterday... mostly tired. Didn't sleep. Still kind of scared._**

**_Things will be okay... we'll live._**

He sighs when he reads it and slides it back. **_I'm sorry._**

Puzzled, I stare at the note for a moment. **_For what?_**

**_For being such a dick last night. I thought about that, too. So, sorry._**

A couple of lines down is more of his writing. **_I meant what I said to you last night backstage._**

I smile. **_Me too._**

The note slides over to my desk one more time. **_Everyone's having a big party after performance tonight... but do you wanna just have a night in?_**

Before I can write back, the bell rings. Dutchy and I sit and wait until Oscar walks out, that stupid fucking smirk still plastered on his face. As we get up to leave, I lean over and smile. "I'll see you after performance."

* * *

Things do not go quite as smoothly as they did last night. Every techie working on the show knows about us, thanks to Oscar and Morris. And every one of them snickers and whispers when they see us. The performance was awkward and there were a couple of technical "flukes" with Dutchy's lights and microphone, which leaves him tense and irritated after the show.

We walk out of the green room without speaking to anyone and head straight for the dorms. We pass a couple of techies on our way, who make cat calls at us and yell random obscenities. Dutchy grates his teeth together and walks faster.

As we walk into his room, Dutchy kicks aside some clothes and then drops onto his bed. Sighing, he looks up at me. "I hate this beyond all reason, Specs."

"I know." I lay down beside him, snaking an arm behind his shoulders and drawing his head to my chest.

"How are we supposed to deal with this?"

I sigh and stroke his hair lightly. "To be honest... I'm not the one to ask. I ran away from this the last time it happened to me."

Dutchy picks his head up and looks at me. "The last time?"

Closing my eyes, I shake my head. "That's why I came in so late in the year. I'm lucky they let me in, otherwise I'd probably be in a coma or worse by now." I sigh and open my eyes, letting them meet his. "See... beginning of freshman year, this group of guys at my school found out I was gay. It didn't fly. But to make a long story short, I couldn't go in a locker room, go to a football game, hell, go out in public alone without getting the shit beaten out of me. So I just ran away from it."

"Wow," Dutchy says, running a hand along my cheek. "I'm sorry, Specs." He lays his head back down and wraps an arm around my waist, squeezing lightly. "Then how come you're so normal?"

I can't help but chuckle. "Dutchy, what about me is _normal_?"

For the first time since last night, I hear him laugh, I see him smile. I have to close my eyes and savor it for a moment. Before I have the chance to open them again, Dutchy's lips are pressed to mine. I let things slide along and sigh a little as he rolls onto me, pushing my shirt up and over my head.

I lay back and let Dutchy take over. I figure he needs it, needs to feel in control, to feel like a man. I hope he does, as I let him step up to bat.

* * *

Dutchy rolls off of me and lays on his back a while, panting. It takes a while for me to catch my breath as well, and when we're both calmed down a little, we look at each other and grin.

"You feel a little better?"

He nods. "Actually, yeah. Ain't that something?" He rolls onto his side, reaching over me for his boxers. I follow suit and we lay there in our skivvies, as Dutchy likes to call them, finally beginning to relax. Dutchy yawns.

I brush his hair back from his forehead. "Do you wanna just call it a night?"

Dutchy flops onto his stomach and lays his head on my chest, throwing an arm over me. "Yeah, but you're staying here."

I smile. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

He grins and lifts his head up to kiss me. "I love you," he mutters against my lips.

I smile. "I love you, too." He lays his head back down and starts to drift off to sleep in my arms. I know the situation is far from resolved, but it's good to know that at least we're okay.

For now.


	31. A Stupid Mistake

The worst thing about Saturdays at this school: matinées. They _suck_. Not only do I have to perform twice in one day, but at this particular matinée, Johannes Visser, Sr. is in the audience, watching our every move.

I officially want to kill myself.

I walk out of the green room just behind Dutchy to see Mr. Wiesel, wood shop teacher and uncle to Oscar and Morris Delancey (and rather unaffectionately known as Weasel), talking to a man who looks uncannily like a taller, older, more asshole-y Dutchy. Dutchy stops in his tracks as Weasel turns and points at him, that same smirk that Oscar had plastered on his fat, ugly, ass-kissing face.

As Dutchy's dad pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, Dutchy turns and takes off running.

* * *

I'm heading down the hall to Dutchy's room, and I see Blink and Mush standing outside their door. As I approach, they hold their hands up.

"Specs, you don't wanna go in there," Blink says.

I knit my eyebrows together and try to push past him, but then I hear the voices coming from the other side of the door.

I can't make out the words they're saying but one is obviously very angry and the other, which I recognize despite its being muffled as Dutchy's, sounds really distressed. Fighting the urge to burst in there, I stand with his roommates. "What's..."

I don't even have to finish my sentence. Mush puts a hand on my shoulder. "Oscar and Morris told Weasel about the two of you, and Weasel hates Dutchy just as much as the Delanceys do. He told Mr. V., who came in here about twenty minutes ago and hasn't stopped screaming at Dutchy since."

We stand and stare at the door for a few more minutes before the screaming escalates. Now his father is so loud I can actually make out the words.

"You are a disgrace! How could you do this to me? To your _mother_? What will _she_ say? God damn it, Johannes! We raised you better than this!"

Dutchy mumbles something that I don't understand, and his father lets loose with a slew of curses.

"Who is it, Johannes?" I wince. There's silence on the other side of the door. "_Who is it_?"

I hear nothing but a loud slap and then the door swings open. Dutchy's dad is standing there, glaring. "One of you, isn't it?" Blink and Mush and I stand in stunned silence. He stares each one of us down, and his eyes stop on me. "You. I know it's you. You turned my son into some sort of faggot." He pokes his finger into my chest. "You are in all sorts of trouble, young man." And he storms off, leaving me standing there as Blink and Mush run into the room.

I stand, shell-shocked, staring at the half-open door. I hear Blink and Mush in the room, murmuring to Dutchy, and I want to go in and join them. All I want to do is help, to comfort him, but my feet won't move.

Blink and Mush come back out, shaking their heads. They look at me, and Blink grabs my arm. "Go in and talk to him, Specs," he says, tugging me toward the door. "We're just gonna go."

I'm still frozen in the doorway. Mush pushes me into the room and closes the door behind him.

I look at Dutchy, curled up in his bed, facing the wall. He looks so small and crumpled, like a little boy. Sighing, I lay down beside him, wrap an arm around his waist. He flinches and tries to fight me off, but I hold on. "Dutch," I say, taking hold of his hand. "It's okay, it's just me. It's okay now."

Dutchy turns over, and as he does, I get a good look at his face. His eyes are so sad, and his cheek is red where his father hit him. I can tell he's trying not to cry. I know he won't allow himself.

He sighs and curls into me, burying his face in my chest. "I'm sorry."

* * *

Sunday is not so bad. After an absolutely terrible performance Saturday night, we have the day off. And I'm celebrating by sitting in my room, doing homework. Yay, homework.

"So, Specs," Jack asks from David's bunk, where he's taken over control of David's laptop, "is our little Dutch-boy okay? He seemed really off last night."

I shrug. "Um..." I'm tentative at first, but then I remember that all my roommates know about me and Dutchy. And they're cool with it. "Well, see, Oscar and Morris walked in on us the other night... and, um, they told Weasel, who told Dutchy's dad, who is not happy. That's the condensed version, anyway."

Jack nods. "His dad's kind of an odd bird. He'll get over it."

"His dad is fucking scary as all hell," David pipes up from the floor, where he's reading over a pre-press copy of the school newspaper. "He's like the king of overreactions. One time he threatened to have me expelled for misprinting his donation amount in the paper."

I shake my head. "Jesus," I mutter, then turn back to my English textbook.

"Jack, I'm kinda hungry," David says, standing up. "Let's go get something to eat."

Jack nods and gets up. "You wanna come, Specs?"

I look up from my book. "No, thanks. I really need to finish this paper. But maybe I'll catch up with you guys later."

"Okay," they say, and walk out.

I enjoy five whole minutes of peace and quiet with which to make progress on my homework before there's a knock on the door. I open it to find Dutchy on the other side.

"Hey," I say with a grin, opening the door wider for him to come in.

"Hey," he says, with no real emotion in his voice.

"Is everything okay?" I close the door behind him and look Dutchy over, trying to read his expression.

"Well, um..." He shuffles his feet uncomfortably. "No, not really."

I lean back against my bedpost. "What's wrong?"

He sighs. "My dad's still on his tirade."

I smile a little bit. "Were you expecting something else?" When he doesn't say anything, I shrug. "Dutchy, everything's going to be okay. Your dad will calm down. Or bust a capillary. Either one."

"Yeah..." He sighs again. "But see, yesterday... he really got to me. He's threatening to pull me out of here."

I put my arms around him, give him a little squeeze. He doesn't return it. "Just stand your ground, Dutch."

"That's the thing, Specs. I don't know if I can."

"What do you mean?" I step back from him so I can look him in the face.

"I just don't know if I can do this." He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor.

"Don't know if you can do what?"

"_This_."

I sigh and roll my eyes. "Dutchy, don't give me this stupid teenage-movie cryptic shit, okay? What are you trying to say?"

"You and me, Specs. I don't know if it's such a good idea. I mean..." He flicks his eyes up to my face and then back down to my shoes. "My dad was saying yesterday that it's just a phase and I'll get it out of my system and it'll be over with, and maybe... maybe he's right."

Shaking my head, I stare at him. "Right, Dutchy, because people often fall in love with one another during _phases_."

He sighs. "It's just that maybe I was just confused."

I grate my teeth together. "Maybe. You were just. _Confused_."

Dutchy looks up at me, exasperated. "Specs, could you just not? Could you let me talk?" He bites his lip. "Look, it's not like I _want_ to hurt you. I was just... making some wrong turns. Like I said, I'm just confused."

I roll my eyes. "No, Dutchy, what you are is a coward. You're too weak to stand up to Daddy and his criticism, too much of a pussy to stand up to a couple of stupid upperclassmen who want to fuck with you. So you're just running away."

"That's not fair, Specs."

Laughing, I shake my head. "You want to talk to me about what's fair."

He takes his hands out of his pockets, lifting them in an attempt to pull something to say out of the air. "I'm sorry, okay? I just made a mistake. A really stupid, _stupid_ mistake."

"Yeah, you did." Without thinking, my fist connects full-force with his jaw. I push past him and open the door, grabbing his shirtsleeve. "Get out." And I shove him out, slamming the door in his fast.

That stupid, sorry, chicken-shit son of a bitch.


	32. Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

I don't even bother with classes on Monday. No one seems to blame me, either. Jack and David had managed to get me to explain when they'd gotten back from dinner Sunday night, and then they told Spot who told Racetrack and so on and so forth. And they were all being really nice to me on Monday, what with letting me stay in bed all day with the covers over my head, pouting and stewing.

But Tuesday is another story.

They all come back in after breakfast and Racetrack cruelly yanks the comforter off of me and throws it on the floor.

"Get up," he says, with none of his characteristic sarcasm or even the slightest hint of compassion in his voice.

"No," I mumble, pulling the sheet up higher, which Race promptly steals from me as well. I roll over and glare at him and the other three guys standing above me. "Damn it, what do you want?"

"We're having an intervention," Jack says.

I roll my eyes. "Jesus, am I in A.A. or something?"

"It's fucking Tuesday," Spot says, beginning to go through my drawers. He pulls out some clean clothes. "You haven't gotten out of bed in over twenty-four hours and you're wearing the same clothes as you were on Sunday."

"Plus you kind of smell," adds Race.

"And they're going to sic the head nurse on you if you miss any more classes," David finishes.

They all stand and stare at me for a couple minutes. Feeling uncomfortable, I roll back over to face the wall again. "Guys, it's nice of you to care and all, but I just don't feel up to it today."

Apparently, they aren't having it. Jack and Racetrack grab me and literally drag me from my bed to the floor.

"Get up," the four of them say in unison.

* * *

I finally make it about halfway through third period and then am dragged to lunch. When I just sit at the table and sulk, Race sits across from me, glaring.

"Eat," he snaps.

I lower my eyes. "I'm not hungry, Race."

"You'll feel better."

"Will not." And before I can go back to sulking, Racetrack shoves half a turkey sandwich into my mouth, nearly choking me. "You know, you'd make a really good Jewish mother," I say around the bread.

Whether he understood me or not isn't evident, but he reiterates my point with his simple reply of "Chew."

* * *

After lunch is English, which I completely and utterly dread. Being the incredibly lucky person that I am, there are, of course, no seats open but my usual one by the time I get there. I'll have to remember to be early tomorrow.

Dutchy lifts his eyes to me as I make my way to my desk at the back of the room, and I'm able to take comfort in the fact that there is a rather spectacular bruise along his jawline. Without saying a word, I take my seat and fix my eyes on the blackboard.

Class passes by slowly after Mr. Denton's lecture, and the room is fairly quiet as everyone works on their assignments.

Quiet except for Dutchy trying to get my attention.

"Specs," he whispers, leaning over the edge of his desk. "Come on, Specs. We need to talk."

He keeps whispering and I keep staring at my notebook until Mr. Denton's head pops up from the stack of papers he's grading.

"Dutchy," he snaps, "and Specs. Is there something you'd like you share with the class?"

"I was just--" Dutchy begins defensively.

"You know, my patience is running really low for you two and your antics in my class. I'll see you both in detention, after school."

"I wasn't doing anything!" I try and speak in my defense, but the bell rings.

God, I hate my life right now. Not only do I have detention, which I've never had before in my life, but I have it with Dutchy.

"Sorry," he says, looking pitifully at me as I gather my stuff. I just glare at him and walk out.

Oscar smirks at me as I pass him. "Looks like the honeymoon's over," I hear him say to his friends.

I'm beginning to hope God will strike me down in an act of pity.

* * *

As if my day weren't long enough, I have to spend two hours after school in Denton's classroom, which I could be spending in bed, ignoring the world. To top it all off, I'm accompanied by the current bane of my existence.

Twenty minutes in, I'm ready to off myself. I begin looking around the room for items with which to bring about my demise. I wonder what I could do with a ruler, a chalkboard eraser, and one of those really big dictionaries.

"Boys," Denton interrupts my train of thought, "I'm going to run out for a cup of coffee. I'll be back in a few minutes. Behave yourselves while I'm gone."

He leaves and Dutchy turns to me as soon as the door closes. His mouth opens and I hold up a hand.

"Just don't, okay? Don't talk to me. You won't help your situation any."

He looks insulted. "Look, it's not like this is my fault."

"Actually, it's entirely your fault."

Before he can retort, the door opens and we both turn to it as Sarah Jacobs walks in.

"Oh, hey," she says. "Where's Mr. Denton?"

"Went out for coffee," Dutchy says. "You need something?"

"Oh, I was just going to ask him something about this article I'm writing for the newspaper." She smiles a little bit and something tells me she doesn't hate Dutchy anymore. "What are you doing in here?"

Dutchy shrugs. "Detention. I'm not exactly sure what I did, though."

Sarah laughs. "Well, you know how Denton always gets a little irritable this time of the year." She turns and heads for the door, then stops and turns back around. "Are we still on for after the show Friday?"

Nodding, Dutchy looks over at me and tries not to be obvious about it. Sarah leans down and whispers in his ear, though I can hear her loud and clear. "My roommates will all be gone Friday night."

Dutchy's cheeks get a little red and Sarah grins. Brushing her fingers along the bruise on his face, she shakes her head. "Try not to have any more altercations with desks between now and Friday."

I close my eyes and hope that when I open them, this will all have been one long, very bad dream.


	33. Only Posers Die

The rest of the week flies by mostly without a hitch. I mean, I am not persecuted by any more of my teachers on account of my dim-witted ex-boyfriend, but aforementioned ex keeps trying to talk to me. Like he has anything important to say anymore.

Friday night finds me in the dressing room after a rather decent performance, washing off my makeup and combing most of the gel out of my hair. Dutchy pops up at the sink next to me, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

"We need to talk," he says.

I roll my eyes and set the comb down. "About what, Dutchy?"

He blinks and stutters. Apparently, I have caught him off guard. He takes a deep breath like he's going to say something profound and meaningful and philosophical, and simply blurts out, "I'm sorry."

Arching an eyebrow, I shake my head. "That's all you have to say to me? You're _sorry_?"

Dutchy sighs. "Specs, look..."

"No, Dutchy. Just stop wasting my time and get out of here. Sarah's waiting for you and you don't want to take too long, do you?" I see him wince and I walk out to catch up with Racetrack, who's waiting outside for me.

* * *

Racetrack makes me stay in his room most of the evening with Spot and Jack and David and their friend Adam, also known as Skittery, though I don't know why. Skittery brought this movie called _SLC Punk!_, and, strangely enough, looks exactly like Heroin Bob. It's actually kind of scary.

When the move is over, I shake my head. "Wow," I say.

Skittery grins and takes the tape out of the VCR. "Good, huh?"

"Actually, it kind of makes me want to kill myself."

The guys all laugh and then, in unison, as they love to do, shout, "ONLY POSERS DIE!"

"Oi vey," I mutter, standing up. "You guys are fucking nuts. I'm going to bed."

I walk out to find a girl knocking on the door to my room. "Can I help you with something?"

She turns around. "Do you know where David is?" The girl is small and mousy, and looks utterly lost.

"Uh, yeah, he's in here." I jerk my thumb toward Racetrack's door. "You okay?"

She smiles a little. "Yeah. I'm his sister's roommate and she's a little... um, _busy_ with her date and I have nowhere else to go, so I was thinking I'd just come over here and hang out with Dave for a little while."

"Oh. Um, yeah, he's in there with Jack and a few other people. They're all watching movies. Have fun. 'Scuze me." I walk into my room and close the door behind me, standing alone in the dark.

God officially hates me.


	34. Skeletons

I survived the final performance of _Bye Bye Birdie _and now my life seems like it's getting to be a little more back to normal. I mean, aside from the facts that these past couple of weeks have been the worst in my entire life to date, and that I am totally and utterly alone.

On the bright side, though, is the prospect that the school year is over in just a few short weeks and I can go home and contemplate my options. _To be or not to be, that is the question._ Well, actually, the question is whether to come back here to Pulitzer's and start over, or to go back to my high school back home and learn to appreciate the art of the fag drag.

Both of them are currently about as appealing as Richard Simmons naked.

I shake my head to banish all of the above thoughts and try to focus on what Mr. Denton is blabbing about at the front of the room.

"Now, as you should all have noticed by now, the year is coming to a close." There are a few titters of excitement throughout the classroom, but they die down quickly enough with a stern look from Denton. "And you all probably know about the end-of-year art contest we have. I hope all of you have entered," he says, looking around the room and focusing on me. I sink down in my seat, hoping to make him stop, because I didn't enter the contest. "Everything submitted to the visual art contest has been carefully looked over and for each category, the staff has chosen three projects to be displayed. All second- and third-place entries will be displayed in the hallways, and every first-place winner will be shown at the end-of-year dance next Friday night. I assume everyone's heard about the dance?" Mr. Denton smirks.

I roll my eyes as some of the girls twitter excitedly. Here at J.P.'s, you're lucky if you haven't heard about this dance – but unfortunately that would also mean that you are dead. See, J.P.'s doesn't have a prom. We have a gala at the end of the year which the parents attend, and they drink champagne and eat fancy hors d'oeuvres and shoot the proverbial shit with other Fifth-Avenue artsy-fartsy folks while viewing the entries from the contest and pretending to be interested in what the winners have to say. After this, the parents go home or whatever, and the students stick around in the commons for a dance. It's formal, like a prom, and it has music, like a prom, and it pretty much is a prom except prom is for normal people and we here at J.P.'s are most definitely _not_ normal.

Denton goes on with the explanation of rules for the dance and whatnot, and I just tune him out. The bell finally rings and I get up to walk out, my shoulder colliding with Dutchy's.

"Sorry," he mumbles without looking into my face, gathering up the rest of his stuff and hurrying out of the room. I stand and watch him a moment, and there's this uncomfortable, sinking feeling in my chest.

I miss him.

An arm finds it way around my shoulders and I look over to find Skittery. He smiles a little. "You okay?"

I shrug. "Will be," I say, still feeling like my ribcage is weighing me down.

Skittery nods. "Come on," he says, jerking his head towards the door. "Let's get outta here."

* * *

Skittery has convinced me to skip my next class and now we sit under a tree in the courtyard, silent and more than a little bored on my part. I look around at the empty grass and sigh.

"You're really down and out about this, aren't you?" Skittery looks at me, his eyes full of concern. He's got that kind of look about him that makes you feel safe and comfortable... like a therapist, or your older brother's best friend who's less of a douchebag than your brother.

"Does it show?" I wrap my arms around my knees, drawing them to my chest and resting my chin on them.

Skittery smiles a little. "It'll get better."

I roll my eyes. "Funny, everyone keeps saying that, but it never seems to be true."

He puts a hand on my shoulder and just leaves it there for a moment. It's probably the most comforting thing I've experienced in a long while. At length, he asks, "You wanna talk about it?"

I sigh and press my forehead to my knees, and begin the Saga of Specs and Dutchy.

* * *

"Well," Skittery says, shaking his head. "I'm sorry about all that."

"Not your fault," I reply, shrugging, my face still pressed against my legs. "I guess it just pisses me off that he was so willing to jump into all of this and then so quick to turn tail and run."

He nods. "Yeah... but what pisses me off is that Oscar is such a hypocrite."

"What do you mean?"

"He's real happy to go around outing anyone who crosses his path, but the kid's got more skeletons in his closet than you can shake a stick at."

"What?" I lift my head up, looking at Skittery.

He smirks. "You have a red mark on your forehead." I open my mouth to protest his changing the subject, but he interrupts me. "Hey, what're you doing for the dance next week?"

"Uh... well, I wasn't really planning on going."

"What?" Skittery looks genuinely shocked.

"It just doesn't sound like a whole lot of fun." I shrug. "Besides, I don't really have anything to wear to a formal dance."

"You _have_ to go!" He pushes at my shoulder a bit. "I've got an extra suit you can wear."

"I look terrible in a suit."

Skittery rolls his eyes. "Damn it, Specs, shut up. You're going."

"But I don't have anybody to go with." When he looks at me, I shake my head. "I am _not_ going stag. It's lame and far too eighties for my tastes."

"So come with me," he says, and my eyes go wide. "Not like that, you idiot. Me and Bumlets and Pie Eater are all going together and you could come with us."

"I don't know, Skittery. I'm not much for dancing. Especially not right now."

"Come on," he says, sighing. "You can't hole yourself up in bed forever. You do that, and you're only going to show him just how pathetic you are. And that's exactly what you are. Pathetic."

"Hey," I say, insulted.

"Well, how else would you describe yourself?" He sighs again, shaking his head. "Specs, you've gotta get out there and show him you can still have fun and your life can still be normal without him. So go to the dance, have a little fun, and rub it in his face."

I sigh and roll my eyes. "Fine," I say, shaking my head in exasperation. "I'll go."

"Great."

"But first, you have to tell me about these 'skeletons' in Oscar's closet."

The bell rings and Skittery looks at me with a grin. "Gotta get to class."


	35. Peachy Keen

I walk back to my room after school is over and find an envelope taped to the door. My name is printed on it, so I grab it and walk in.

"Hey, Spot," I say without looking up, strolling through the flurry of motion toward my bed. "Hey, Race." They both mumble something and fasten their belts, strolling out coolly.

I lay back against my pillow and open the envelope, pulling out the paper inside.

**_Specs,_**

_**I'm done trying to make you listen to me. I know it's not going to work so I guess it's better just to give up than to waste my time and energy. I figure you're going to stop reading right about here if you haven't already, but at least I'll feel better knowing I got this off my chest.**_

_**I'm sorry. I can't stress that enough. Okay? I'm sorry. That's all there is to it.**_

_**You have every right to hate me, and you have every right to never speak to me again. I totally understand. It's still going to hurt me, but I hurt you and I guess that's just karma or whatever.**_

_**What I did to you was wrong. You called me weak and you called me a coward and for a while I was really pissed off at you about it but it turns out that you were right. You were even right to nearly break my jaw like you did. I deserved it and I am both of those things you said. But you have to understand that I don't really have a choice when it comes to you. I can't afford for my father to hate me. And I can't afford for him to ship me off to a military base. There's a reason I'm here.**_

_**What pisses me off is that you became part of that reason. And I just completely blew it. I did love you. Maybe. I think. But I just don't know. Like I said, I'm confused. But like you said, I'm too scared to figure it out.**_

_**So... I'm sorry. Sorry that I hurt you and that I fucked up so badly. You can hate me if you want. But I won't hate you.**_

_**-Dutchy**_

I sigh and shove the letter back into its envelope. Why does he have to do this to me? It's not fair. I was doing really well and then this stupid fucking note had to come up and bite me in the ass.

Angrily, I throw the letter into a desk drawer and slam it shut. I decide to do something, anything to take my mind off of Dutchy and his damned note. I start rifling through my drawers, and during my search for distraction, I find some of Dutchy's underwear, one of his undershirts, a toothbrush I don't recognize that is also probably Dutchy's, and an issue of _Seventeen_ he brought to cheer me up with when I was freaking out about the play.

Holding these things in my arms, I slump against the wall and slide down to the floor. I'm trying my hardest not to cry. If there's one thing my father taught me, it's that men don't cry. Even after I came out to him, he told me that if I show the slightest bit of emotion, people will only tear into me more. Since he turned out to be right, it's kind of stuck.

And I absolutely refuse to let Dutchy turn me into less of a man.

I remain like this for a few minutes, with my face in my hands, until I feel like I've finally gotten control of my head again. Standing up, I open the door and dump Dutchy's things out in the hallway. The door to Racetrack's room across the hall opens up and Mush and Blink walk out with Pie Eater.

"Hey, Specs," Mush says with a smile. That smile fades as he looks at my face. "You okay?"

I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets.

"Um, what are you doing?" Blink looks down at the small pile in the hallway.

"Just getting rid of some stuff... spring cleaning, I guess you could say." I shrug.

Mush arches an eyebrow and nods slowly. "You sure you're okay, Specs?"

"Just peachy fuckin' keen." I turn to go back into my room, and the guys start heading down the hallway. "Oh, hey, Mush?"

Mush turns around. "Yeah?"

I smile a little. "I think I left my U.S. History textbook in your room... um, do you think you could make look around for it a little for me?"

He nods. "Yeah."


	36. Tug of War

The days are creeping along in the direction of the end-of-year dance, and I'm dreading it every inch of the way. Skittery has already made me try on his suit, which fits pretty well as we're close to being the same size, though the pants are just a little bit long for me. Bumlets and Pie Eater agree with Skittery that it looks utterly fantastic on me, so I don't even bother arguing to get out of going.

There are two short days left to go before the dance and I'm completely terrified. Even though I'm going with a bunch of my friends and don't even have a real date, I'm nervous about what I'm going to wear, how I'm going to act, and the fact that I am indisputably the worst dancer _ever_. I don't even have to voice these fears before my new little clique of friends sense my apprehension.

"You'll live," Bumlets says as I change from Skittery's suit back into my regular clothes. "I mean, half the people here are too busy burying their noses in their art that they don't have time to figure out how to be cool, let alone dance, and the other half will be too busy trying to sneak a glass of champagne to even notice what you're doing."

"Besides, the only ones who care what you look like dancing are girls, and you... well, you've got nothing to worry about there, do you?" Pie Eater gives me a wink and I roll my eyes.

"I'm still not one for making an ass of myself," I say.

"Well, you certainly defied yourself in _Bye Bye Birdie_, then," Skittery says with a grin. I throw a shoe at him. Everyone just laughs and I shake my head.

"This has been super, guys, but I really gotta motor if I'm gonna make it to that funeral," I grin, standing up. "Thanks for letting me borrow the suit, Skitts."

"It's no problem. Catch you later, Specs."

"Wait," Pie Eater says, scratching his head. "What funeral?"

Skittery smacks him in the back of the head and I laugh. "I gotta go study for my finals."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

I go back to my room and I really do study for a while before I drift off to sleep. I wake up maybe an hour later to the sound of an argument voiced in harsh whispers.

"This is just a stupid impulse!"

"How do you know that?"

"Because I just do! We're not gay, Spot. We're just... what'd'ya call it... curious."

"But I'm tellin' you, Race, I think I _am_."

"You're just sayin' that 'cuz you ain't had a girl in a while."

"No, pretty sure I'm sayin' it 'cuz I got a thing for you."

"Pull your head out of your ass, Spot. I'm no fucking queer and neither are you."

"You say that like being gay is a bad thing."

"It _is_ a bad thing! It's not _normal_! I just... I'm sorry, Spot, but I can't."

"Get out."

"What?" The tone of Racetrack's voice has changed entirely.

"I said get out, Higgins. I don't want to see your sorry face again."

The door opens and after it clicks shut, I hear the distinct sound of a fist slamming into wood. I sit up and Spot turns around to look at me.

"You heard all of that, didn't you?"

"Uh..." I scratch my head and reach for my glasses. "Yeah." Spot looks so lost and sad, my heart almost breaks in two for him. "Look, Spot--"

"Specs, please," he says, opening the door again. "Just don't. Don't say anything." And he walks out.

I sit for a moment, wondering what just happened. It seems like everyone in this damned school is going from straight to gay to straight again.

Apparently I'm stuck in a really big game of tug-of-war.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**A/N: The nifty little line thing in the document manager is not working, so I am sad. But you'll just have to deal with my obnoxious separators until it's fixed.**

**Anyway, the point of this is, AVTL is now a series. For those of you who are wondering what Oscar DeLancey's "skeletons" are, I suggest you read the second story, titled Coloring Outside the Lines. There are more stories to come. Enjoy! -Layne**


	37. And Then He Kissed Me

The dance is in less than an hour and I've finally finished getting ready. I think I look blatantly Jewish, but Jack assures me that I look just fine and he and David go back to attempting to coax Spot out of his bunk.

"Spot, come on. This is the last big thing of the year. You don't want to be remembered as the kid who his in his damned room while everybody else was out having fun."

"Besides," David pipes up. "Racetrack's going to be there. You guys can hang out."

Spot gives David an icy glare over the guard rail of his bunk, and I feel actual physical pain just from looking at it.

"What's going on with you and Race, Spot?" Jack straightens his tie in the mirror and then turns back to Spot.

"He's an asshole and we aren't friends anymore. In short, I am never speaking to him again." Spot huffs out a sigh and turns over to face the wall. "Plus, he's going with that dumb bitch Caroline."

"What's wrong with her?" David asks. Sometimes this kid can be such a _dumbass_. "She's sweet. I like her."

"She's a slut," Spot snaps.

Jack sighs. "Fine, Spot. Suit yourself. Let's go, Dave."

Jack and David walk out and I look up at Spot. He turns over after a moment and looks back at me. "What?"

"You've got to go, Spot."

He groans. "Damn it, Specs, not you, too."

"Spot, you have to show him he doesn't phase you."

"But he _does_ phase me. He and his stupid, bi-curious, I-like-chicks-but-I'll-suck-your-cock-for-fun attitude phase me."

I sigh. "I know, but you can't let him know that you feel like that. Now come on, you've still got time to get ready. You can tag along with me and Skittery and Bumlets and Pie."

Spot pulls the blanket over his head. "No. Don't want to. Just leave me alone, Specs."

I start to protest further but there's a knock on the door. I open it to find my three dance companions smiling and waiting.

"You look great," Bumlets says. "Now let's go. I want to see who won the contest."

A cold line of sweat trickles down my back as we walk down the hall.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

I've been walking around the commons for maybe a good hour or so with Skittery, and so far, it's been pretty fun. Everybody's all dressed up and the commons is actually decorated. I like seeing everybody's artwork, and I even know a couple of the people who have their stuff on display. Plus, I haven't seen a trace of certain people who I really don't want to see tonight.

Then Pie Eater has to come up and ruin all my fun.

"Keep your eyes peeled," he says. "Sarah Jacobs is on the warpath and you're number-one on her list."

Skittery snickers. "Man, what'd you do to piss her off?"

I shrug. "I don't know... nothing... I mean, what could I have done? I don't even talk to her."

Pie Eater is smirking. Skittery and I just look at him.

"Somebody told her about you and Dutchy, and now she and Dutchy are on the outs, and she is _not_ happy with you."

I just stand there with my mouth hanging open. Skittery grins.

"Who told her?"

Pie shrugs. "I figure it was probably Morris DeLancey. He's had a major hard-on for her since the day he met her."

"Yeah, that would make sense." Skittery nods.

Bumlets trots up, grinning. "Hey, Specs," he says, grabbing me by the arm. "Come with me. I got something to show you."

He drags me over to a display case and pushes his way through the small crowd of people gathered around it.

"Bumlets, what is this?"

"Just _look_."

I roll my eyes and look at the pictures inside the display case. There are several photographs of couples inside, some boys and girls together and some of other couples, including a pair of girls holding hands and one of Jack and David laughing together. In the center, though, are two photographs that really pop.

On the left is one of me and Dutchy, sitting on his bed. Dutchy's arm is wrapped around me, and we've both got these huge, goofy smiles on our faces. My eyes well a little, so I look to the picture next to it. It's just of me, and I'm laying down in the grass in the courtyard. My face is all sweaty, but my eyes are closed and I'm smiling. I didn't even know that picture was taken.

Beneath the photographs are scribbled the words "Love" and "Free." There's a plaque affixed in the case.

_**Johannes Visser, Jr.**_

_**Winner, Overall Excellence, Photography**_

"Wow. Bumlets, I--" I turn to the side to face Bumlets, but he isn't there anymore.

Dutchy is.

"Hey," he says."

I shove my hands into my pockets and swallow the hard lump in my throat. "Um, hey."

He's wearing a suit. He looks so damned _good_ in a suit. As if it weren't hard enough to be mad at him after looking at those pictures, no, he had to go and look so fucking _adorable_. Bastard.

"Can I tell you something?"

I sigh. "Please don't tell me you're sorry again."

"Wasn't going to." He looks around, and I follow his gaze to see his father standing next to Dutchy's display, a cold, hard look on his face.

"Well, then, what is it?"

Dutchy stands for a moment, staring at his father. "Oh, fuck it," he says, turning to me and staring me straight in the eye. "I'm not confused anymore."

And he kisses me.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**A/N: Ladies and gents (if there are any gents), it's over. But fear not, for a musically-inclined woman of a hefty build has not appeared yet. So sit back, relax, and wait - though you won't have to wait long, seeing as I have a bunch of work done already. Thank you all so much for your love and support during this fic, and I hope to see you come back for more! -Layne**


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